


Velleity

by Lunar_Resonance



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: F/M, but there is hand holding, psychological horror and body horror abound
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-08 09:55:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 35,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5492972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunar_Resonance/pseuds/Lunar_Resonance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maka gets more than she bargained for when a forced father-daughter day at a local museum traps her in a world where the art exhibits have to come life and are out for her blood. Armed with a scythe, she and a strange boy named Soul traverse the topsy-turvy world in their search for a way home. Ib AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tacenda

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all! This is my entry for this year's Resbang challenge-when my artists post their art, I will post a link on my profile page. A few chapters will switch POVs but that will always be marked with a line break. Additionally, this fic is unique in that you can make your own choices at the end of some chapters, which will affect how the story ends, so be on the lookout for that~ Other than that, happy reading!

 

**Tacenda (n: things better left unsaid.)**

* * *

"Maka!"

You jerk awake at the sound of your name and glance at the red-haired man in the driver's seat from underneath your eyelashes. Yawning, you deliberate for a moment whether to answer your father or feign having fallen back asleep.

He doesn't give you a choice, wagging a finger at you while wearing a grin brimming with manufactured cheeriness. "I can see you're awake."

Rubbing your eyes blearily, you grunt and sit up without returning the smile, rolling out the kinks in your neck. You stifle another yawn and peer out the window-there aren't many other cars on the street but it isn't too surprising considering the sun is barely peeking out over Death City's skyscrapers.

"Maka."

You scowl. "What is it?"

He holds out a cup. "We're going to be getting some real food soon but I thought you should have a pick-me-up."

You accept it grudgingly. "You haven't explained why you woke me up this early. Or why we're going into the city." Sniffing the cup gingerly, you take a small sip. The bitterness of black coffee sweeps over your tongue and leaves your mouth burning. You shudder slightly but continue to drink-it's a taste you somehow manage to love and abhor at the same time.

Your father shakes his head. "I can't ruin the surprise now that we're almost there." He taps on the brakes a little too hard as the light in front of you changes from green to yellow. "And I thought you'd want to spend a little quality time together before your junior year of high school begins." His grin spreads wider. "I remember that was a busy year for me."

You snort. "Please spare me the details."

"I wish I could forget some of them myself." His laugh is the same one he cracks after telling a terrible pick up line to the checkout girl at the store.

Unamused, you narrow your eyes and ignore your father's subsequent attempts to prod you into conversation. When he finally gives up and turns up the radio volume, you pretend the slight slump in his shoulders doesn't bother you and spend the rest of the car ride staring out the window and drinking your coffee.

"Breakfast time," your father announces as he pulls to the side of the street and parks. He points to a diner crammed between two high rises. "I hope you're hungry because the buffet here is to die for."

You mumble out something that sounds like a reply as you step out of the car, tossing the empty coffee cup into the trash. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice your father scrambling to get to the door but you reach it first, pulling it open just as he's reaching out to grab the handle.

The pink-haired waitress (whose skull-shaped tag names her as Kim) standing behind the greeting counter doesn't bother straightening up as you two enter. "Welcome to Deathbucks Cafe. Home of the famous Deathbucks pancakes," she says in a voice dripping with boredom. She roots around for menus. "They're _die_ -licious."

Your father's laugh is loud enough for you both as Kim leads the two of you to an empty booth. She plops down a menu in front of you. "Your server will be Jackie."

You immediately pick up the menu as Kim walks away and examine it much more thoroughly than you should. However, you can only look at it for so long-the silence between you two isn't as easy to ignore here.

Placing the menu down, you drum your fingers against the table and look around. Save for the waitresses, the diner is completely empty, the song playing on the loudspeakers made nearly inaudible with garbled static. Looking back down at the menu, you reread the same line over and over without taking in anything.

Your father speaks. "Excited to be starting school tomorrow?"

You shrug. "It'll be nice to see my friends and visit the library."

"That sounds ni-" He struggles briefly. "Fun."

You bob your head and you both lapse back into silence.

"Oh!" Your father exclaims loudly, making you start. He rummages in his jacket pocket, pulls out a badly wrapped package and holds it out eagerly to you. "I almost forgot."

You take it and turn it over in your hands. "What's this?"

"A back to school gift." He taps his fingers against the tabletop and leans forward. "Open it!"

Slowly, you unwrap the package, unsure what to expect from your father. Your eyes widen at the sight of the pair of gloves lying in the wrapping, gleaming white in the diner's fluorescent light.

You hold them up and look at your father, the empty and polite "thank you" you had prepared vanishing from your tongue.

"I noticed your old ones were starting to get holes," your father says. His voice inches up in pitch. "And I had no idea what else you needed so-"

"I like them," you interrupt, surprised to find you mean it completely. You pause and add, "I really did need some new ones. Thank you."

For the first time, the smile that breaks across your father's face is genuine. "I-"

At that moment, a waitress you assume is Jackie walks up to your booth, pulling a notepad from her apron. "Welcome," she says with a warm smile. "Are you ready to order or will we be waiting on your wife?"

Your hands clench around the gloves and the smile on your father's face disappears.

"It's just the two of us," he says quickly, throwing a glance at you.

"Oh, I'm so sorry." A faint blush appears on her face. "I thought because of your ri-"

"Not your fault." Your father waves off her apology, his smile back in place. He looks down at the menu. "I think I'll have the unlimited pancakes."

Jackie nods and looks to you.

"I'll have the same." You push your menu to her and stuff the gloves in your coat pocket, appetite gone.

She scribbles on the pad, snaps it shut and takes the menus. "I'll be back with some coffee for you two." With that, she bustles away.

Your father clears his throat, a clear hint of wanting to talk which you refuse to answer. The awkward tension that constantly freezes and melts between you and him has turned into a sea of broken glass and it's not something you particularly want to deal with this early in the day. You stare down and trace patterns on the table. Maybe if you don't move, you won't get cut.

Your father apparently thinks otherwise. "Maka-"

You cut him off. "You should really stop wearing your ring. It confuses people."

"It's perfectly normal to keep on wearing your ring after a divorce." You can't see his face but you hear the facade in his voice drop. "Your mother and I were together for a long time. It's hard to let something like that go."

"It's been over two years," you reply, narrowing your eyes and raising your head. "I'm sure Mom doesn't have hers anymore so there's really no point in wearing it." You don't give him a chance to respond. "Anyways, the time to have worn it was when Mom was here."

You ignore the hurt that flashes in your father's eyes and scoot out of the booth. "I'm going to wash my hands."

The bathroom is empty, which is lucky for you.

Closing the door, you lean your head back against it and breathe deeply. Mixed in with the hurt feels something like regret and it pricks at your skin like burning metal.

Blowing out the breath you were holding, you walk to the sink and twist the faucet's handle to full blast, sticking your fingers in the icy jet of water. You hold them there until the cold turns into knives and even then you wait for another beat before turning off the water.

You wiggle your fingers and wince, letting the tingling numbness pass before massaging the life back into your hands.

As your skin color returns to normal, your gaze trails up to your face in the mirror. You stare at yourself, absently reaching into your pocket and pulling out the gloves.

The buttery smoothness of the gloves caresses your skin as you pull them on. You fan out your fingers in front of you, checking out your reflection. While the gloves are loose on your wrists, the lining is warm, which will come in handy during winter.

You blink once as you feel the corners of your mouth curving upward.

Hastily, you peel the gloves off and shove them back in your coat. Without another glance to the mirror, you exit the bathroom.

As you round the corner on your way back to the booth, you hear your father chatting animatedly with Jackie. His voice is free in a way it never is when he's talking with you.

You tense but continue to walk, swallowing hard. You don't know when you stopped hating your father (if you ever hated him at all in the first place) and when you started just being stubborn.

When he pats your hand as you slide back in your spot, you scowl sourly before pulling away. But before you start cutting your pancakes, you steal a peek at him, opening your mouth slowly. Then he looks up and you snap your mouth shut and look back down to your plate.

You begin to eat without tasting anything.

And at this point, you don't know which reality you prefer.


	2. Sonder

**Sonder (n: the realization that every stranger around you has a life as vivid and complex as your own.)**

* * *

Your father reverts back to his normal self midway into his second stack of pancakes, seemingly having gotten over your words or deciding to pretend it doesn't bother him. Either way you're glad that the awkwardness between you and him has fallen back to normal levels and finish your breakfast in peace.

The sun shines bright and heavy in your eyes when you exit the diner, cars whizzing by on the streets as Death City's pulse begins to beat again. As your father begins to drive, you briefly consider asking him again where he's taking you before deciding against it, taking out a book to read as rush hour traffic brings driving to a standstill.

"Here it is." You raise your head and look to where your father points. He turns into a parking lot, gesturing to the oddly shaped building covered in windows and what appears to be sutures. "The DWMA Guild's Patchwork Art Museum."

Stepping out of the car, you squint at the museum. Rows of giant stone arrows pointing upward line the path to the museum's steps, giving the grounds the morbid air of a cemetery. Unlike the neighboring buildings whose reflective surfaces makes the sunlight bounce off in radiant arcs, the faded grey stone of the museum appears to suck in the light, casting it in a permanent gloom. And based on the building's dilapidated state, the suture-like cracks look less like an aesthetic choice and more like what's holding the museum together.

"Pretty neat, huh?" You jump at the sound of your father behind you.

Your gaze travels past the sutures and up to the dozens of windows haphazardly dotting the museum's front. "It looks like something out of a horror movie."

You didn't notice it at first but the windows are shaped like eyes, fitted with a circle of black glass in the middle for the pupil. You shuffle your feet, unable to look at them for too long. It's irrational but you get the feeling that they're all staring straight at you.

"The museum nearly went bankrupt about five years ago and was only revived recently," your father says as you two head to the entrance. He eyes the sutures decorating the museum doors warily and the look on his face turns slightly sour. "An old... _friend_ with rather eccentric taste had a hand in the architectural repairs."

His expression brightens. "But he did give me free tickets for the museum's fiftieth anniversary so I thought you might enjoy coming out to see the artwork." He gives you a fond smile and holds open the door. "Remember when you were little and you used to love going to museums?" He laughs once. "You were even convinced you were gonna be a famous artist someday."

"That was before I found out I was bad at art." A blast of freezing air hits you as you enter the lobby. You shiver, making your way to the ticket desk. "Is it supposed to be this cold?"

"There's a wide range of styles featured here," your father says, pulling out the tickets from his wallet. He rings the bell at the desk. "It's probably for one of the art pi-"

"Nice guess, Spirit." A man in a tattered lab coat claps your father on the back. "It's for my dissection pieces, actually."

"Stein!" Your father's voice goes up several octaves, tickets slipping out of his hands. His face turns from its normal color to ashen grey in seconds. "I thought you were gon-I mean," He clears his throat. "I didn't know you were still here."

"Kieran made me an offer I couldn't refuse." The man called Stein grins at him, pushing up his glasses. "But tell me, did you really think getting your tickets from my wife would keep me from seeing you?" On his face are scars identical to the ones on the museum's exterior. The hand clamping down on your father's shoulder tightens. "You've been avoiding me, Spirit."

"I wasn't avoiding you!" Your father shrugs off Stein's hand, eyes darting everywhere but at Stein's face as he picks up the tickets and backs into the ticket desk. "I just didn't know you were still working here."

"Art director isn't exactly what I envisioned for myself but Kieran lets me experiment and calls it art so I can't complain," Stein answers with a shrug. "Does call for more fancy speeches than I care for," he says. "Though Marie offered to give the speech at the today's reception since she's much better at that kind of thing."

His eyes turn toward you. "I'd ask you what you've been up to but that's somewhat obvious."

"This is Maka, my daughter," your father says proudly. "She's at the top of her class at her school," he says, wrapping his arm around your shoulder.

"It's pretty obvious I'm your daughter, isn't it?" you say, rolling your eyes and stepping away. "And you don't have to announce that every time you introduce me to someone."

"You're certainly Suzume's daughter," Stein chimes in.

Your gaze snaps to Stein. "You knew my mother?"

"We were academic rivals in high school. We ended up being co-valedictorians actually so it's apparent whose brains you inherited," Stein says, ignoring your father's indignant exclamation. He leans against the desk "I haven't seen her since we graduated. Is she still in town?"

Your father opens his mouth but you interrupt. "She's a traveling photographer now. She mostly keeps in touch with postcards," you answer shortly. Without looking at your father, you ask, "Can I go look around?"

Stein answers for him. "Of course, Spirit and I have a lot to catch up on." He points to a doorway by the ticket desk. "The main exhibit is straight up the stairs through there." Glancing at the watch on his wrist, he adds, "The anniversary reception will be taking place in there in about an hour so you have plenty of time to explore."

Nodding, you start to head off when your father stops you. "Maka."

You turn back. "What, Papa?"

"I-" He deflates abruptly, his usually open face unreadable. "I'll find you later, okay?" he says.

The feeling of regret from before resurfaces and for a moment you hesitate. Then you dip your head once. "See you later."

"My work is in the second room," Stein calls after you as you walk through the doorway. "Hope you've got a strong stomach!"

* * *

The first thing you notice after exiting the stairwell is the large banner stretched across the room. _Welcome to the Wonderful World of Death_ is printed out in large block lettering. Underneath, in smaller letters, you read, "Now featuring side by side artworks from Lord Death and Medusa Gorgon of the DWMA and Fifth Power guilds for the first time."

The names ring familiar from the local art history class you took at Death City's rec center two years ago. You can't remember the exact details but you do know there was a long-standing feud between the two guilds.

There are only two paintings in the room: one running from the ceiling to the floor on the back wall and another that nearly takes up the entire floor. A small crowd is huddled around a tour guide by the largest painting in the room so you examine the floor painting first.

The sign in front of the painting reads: _The Abyss of Madness and the Agony of the Soul. The largest exhibit in our collection, it was created by Medusa and Arachne Gorgon of the Fifth Power Guild in honor of the museum's revival._

To you, the painting only appears to be an enormous canvas of textured black paint made to emulate waves. However, as you circle the border of the painting, glimmers of color and light within them catch your eye.

You pause to examine the painting more closely. The shapes are actually translucent glass orbs, irregular extensions at their tops. Most of the orbs are positioned at the crest of the waves which gives you the impression that they're struggling to free themselves from the painting. There's something distinctly human about them and it unsettles you deeply, making the back of your neck itch.

Fortunately, the crowd huddled around the painting hanging on the back wall has moved onto the next room so you eagerly turn your back on the writhing souls to study the other painting.

The flesh-colored bag covered in arcane symbols hanging suspended by metal chains radiates an aura of quiet eeriness that roots itself somewhere in your soul. You would be completely transfixed if it wasn't for the outline of a face straining from the inside of the bag.

The prisoner's hands futilely push outward, as if reaching towards you for help, while their mouth opens in an eternal and silent scream, terrified torment etched in every line of their face.

However, unlike the last exhibit, this painting doesn't horrify you nearly as much and you gaze at the figure in the bag for a few minutes before turning to the sign, which titles the painting as _The First Kishin._ Below the title reads:

" _Originally meant as a collaboration between Medusa Gorgon of the Fifth Power Art Guild and Lord Death of the DWMA Art Guild as well as an end to the extreme rivalry between the two guilds, The First Kishin was meant to represent the delicate balance between madness and sanity within an individual. However, the collaboration fell apart when Gorgon and Death failed to come an artistic consensus on the painting. After the falling out, a flurry of events behind closed doors transpired and eventually the unfinished painting ended up in Gorgon's hands. A victorious albeit drawn-out lawsuit by the DWMA guild won back the painting, where Lord Death stored away the painting, calling it "a blight on humanity." It was not until after Lord Death's recent passing and a successful attempt by his son to finally end the guilds' enmity was it was discovered that, despite his outward attitude, Lord Death finished the painting. Tragically, it is the only painting of Lord Death's that survived the house fire that claimed his life a few years ago._

_While it appears that he attempted to cover up most of Gorgon's work, her depiction of the creation she named the kishin still shines through. The painting now hangs in our center gallery in its original form as a tribute to the two pioneering artists and a newfound symbol of gratitude for the Fifth Power guild in their role for reviving the museum."_

Your eyes move back to the painting-the more you stare at the prisoner, the more you feel as though they are not only looking straight at you but that they see you.

"I wouldn't look at that for too long if I were you," an unfamiliar voice says.

Turning, you see a man dressed in a crisp suit standing next to you. "Of all the works they could have picked, they had to choose this one." He contemplates the painting with a frown. "It just has a way of getting under your skin."

You glance back at the prisoner and then to the man again. "But in the end, it's only a painting, right? You're the one who controls the effect it has on you."

"A fair point," the man concedes, turning to face you. Despite the three white stripes running through his hair, he can't be older than thirty. "Though I may never be unbiased about the painting that was the source of my childhood nightmares."

"Nightmares?" You recognize the skull-shaped brooch pinned where his tie should be as the symbol of the DWMA art guild. "You're-"

"Lord Death's son," he says, nodding. He holds out a hand. "Kieran Decesso."

"Maka Albarn," you say, shaking his hand.

Kieran tucks his hands into his pockets. "So what brings you to the museum today?"

"My father is old friends with the director," you answer.

"You know Stein?" he asks interestedly.

"In a way." You'd prefer not to discuss your father so you ask, "Are you an artist too?"

He grimaces. "Living life splattered in paint never much appealed to me. Keeping things in balance is more my speed." Gesturing around the room, Kieran says, "Which is why being the museum's art curator is the perfect job for me."

"And being a peace negotiator," you add, nodding to the painting's sign. "That's impressive."

"Not quite peace yet," he answers. "But it's a start to healing old wounds." He gives the painting another dark look. "Though it would help if one of those old wounds wasn't staring people right in the face as they enter the museum."

"Is it because it's a failed collaboration?" you guess.

"If that is only what it was, I wouldn't be so ashamed of it," he replies, sighing. "It was more a publicity stunt than anything else. And since my father and Medusa were the most famous artists of their guild, if not the most talented, it was natural that they were chosen for the collaboration. But they had, ah, fundamental differences in how they viewed the world. My father saw things in black and white and found perfection in order while Medusa was most content in creating chaos."

You raise an eyebrow. "Sounds like a recipe for disaster."

"They never should have been put in the same room together," Kieran says, shaking his head. "It quickly became into a battle of one-upping the other before devolving into a legal mess. When I began the journey to unite the two guilds, I thought everyone would be eager to let the painting die quietly. But it was part of the Fifth Power's conditions to include this painting in the main exhibit area."

"I suppose," he says after a moment of silence, "that it is good to acknowledge the past, no matter how ugly it is."

"Ugly is an understatement," a woman with a clipboard says as she walks up to the other side of Kieran. The futuristic maroon suit she wears along with the oversized sunglasses covering half of her face would look awkward on anyone else but the confidence radiating from her makes her carry the outfit effortlessly. She places a hand on her hip and sniffs. "If I'd been paid for the countless hours of rants I had to listen about your father and his guild and the amount of consequent schmoozing I had to do for Mabaa to even meet with you, I'd be happily retired and lying somewhere on a beach right now."

Kieran gestures to you. "Maka, this is Elizabeth Thompson. She's the museum's publicity manager."

"I keep telling him to call me Liz." You can hear the eye roll in her voice as she shakes your hand. "But he refuses."

"It was largely thanks to Elizabeth that negotiations went so well," Kieran says proudly. "Without out her, I doubt we'd even have the museum up and running."

"I-well," Liz clears her throat before beginning again. "The guild is where Patti feels most at home." She flicks an imaginary speck of dust off her sleeve. "I couldn't let this place go under before she has the chance to realize her dreams."

"You're such a sap, sis," says a blonde girl cheerfully, popping up next to Liz from out of nowhere. She props her elbow on Liz's shoulder. Her artist's smock is stained with paint and her hair is covered in sculpting dust. "You're going to lose your tough as nails reputation."

"I thought I told you to dress in something nice," Liz scolds, starting brushing off the dust stuck in her sister's hair. "You know what today is."

"But these are my nice work clothes," Patti says, ducking her head. Her eyes move to you. "Your aura looks like an emerald."

You blink. "Thank you."

"Patricia has a very creative eye," Kieran informs you. "She helped with the re-design of the museum, along with our director, Stein. It was her idea to take the idea of the windows from those," he said, pointing to the symbols on the prisoner's bag.

"Eyes are the window to the soul after all," Patti says cheerfully as she dodges Liz's attempts to clean her up.

"Which is why I never take off my sunglasses." Liz finally manages to grab hold of her sister's arm. "You're lucky my car's a portable closet, let's go."

Patti waves as she allows Liz to lead her away. "Bye now."

"My father was mostly a recluse after the lawsuit," Kieran says. "But I convinced him to take Liz and Patti under his wing. They were his last proteges, in fact." He pauses. "I think he'd be proud to see how they turned out."

"I think he'd be proud of everything you three have done," you say.

"I do hope so." His eyes rest briefly back on the painting. Then, he looks to you. "Well, I must excuse myself, I've got a speech to give in less than an hour and it's not going to practice itself."

You chuckle politely. "It was nice meeting you."

"Likewise." He gives you a wave as he walks off in the same direction as the two sisters. "Enjoy the rest of your stay here."

You raise a hand in farewell and remain at the painting for one more moment before moving onto the next room. The tour group didn't linger here for long and the overpowering smell of formaldehyde makes it apparent why-you do have to admit that you are rather impressed by the finesse of Stein's handiwork on his dissection specimens as you pass through, neat stitching creating geometric patterns that are morbidly fascinating.

You stop at the only piece of art in the room that isn't made of flesh. _Resonance of the Souls by Franken Stein and Patricia Thompson_ reads the sign. The sculpture's shape does vaguely resemble the souls in the other room, its vibrantly colored metal fluidly twisting and turning into two giant orbs threaded together in the middle. They're both so completely intertwined that you can't tell where the metal begins or ends.

You're completely captivated, unable to look away. Drawing closer, you lay your palm against the metal; although the room is freezing, the metal is strangely warm, even with your gloves on. The entire sculpture fills you with a sense of peace: there's something about the two souls that makes you feel whole.

You jump at the sound of other people entering the room, yanking back your hand. Reverie broken, you feel a strange awkwardness, as if you'd been doing something important before being walked in on.

Tucking your hair behind your ear, you dwaddle for a moment before walking away, promising to yourself to visit the sculpture again before you leave.

You roam through the rest of the museum aimlessly. While none of the other works capture you quite as much the sculpture, you are impressed with a sense of otherworldliness from the art pieces, from Patti's colorful and surrealist paintings to Eibon's series of statues depicting the seven deadly sins.

You're admiring an angel statue when you feel someone clap you on your shoulder.

A hand catches your elbow from slamming into their face. "Whoa, is that any way to greet your best friend?"

You whirl around, wrenching your arm back. "Black Star?"

"In the flesh," he says. He has an absurdly wide smile on his face for being up before eight in the morning. "Aren't you blessed?"

"You're the one who should be counting your blessings." You try and fail to keep from rolling your eyes. "I almost broke your nose."

"Almost broke your elbow," he corrects.

You scowl. "Do you really want me to try to find out which one of us is right?"

"Absolutely not," a firm voice interjects. Tsubaki Nakatsukasa comes to a stop between you and Black Star and folds her arms. "It's been nearly two months since you and I've been banned from somewhere and I'm not planning on breaking that streak today."

"That's not fair." Black Star protests. "It was only half my fault we got the cops called on us at that last store." He juts out his lip and runs a hand through his hair, sending bright blue spikes sticking up in every direction. "Dunno why you'd care about getting kicked out of a place like this though. Some of the paintings look like they were made by babies."

"It's art," she replies delicately. "And if you're going to start a fight, then you know I'm going to end it one way or another."

She smiles at you. "It's a nice surprise to run into you, Maka. I thought we wouldn't see you till school tomorrow. Are you here alone?"

You open your mouth. "I, uh-" You quickly weigh the probability of the two running into your father. "No," you admit, sighing deeply before muttering, "My father's with me."

"A father-daughter date?" Black Star interjects with glee. "How adorable."

"Another word and I'll show you what a door is able to do to your face," you growl.

"There will be none of that," Tsubaki says pointedly. She changes the subject.. "Where's your father? I'd like to say hello."

You shrug. "He was catching up with an old friend from high school the last time I saw him."

"Oh." Her smile falters momentarily. "Well, why don't you hang out with us then?"

"Your nerding out is funner with an audience anyways," Black Star adds.

"Really? Are you sure about that?" You hurtle daggers at him in your glare. "Are you absolutely sure, _Sheldon_?"

Black Star disappoints you by not exploding at the mention of his real name. He shrugs. "I've come to accept that my parents had shitty taste in names and also that," he grins toothily and jerks his thumbs toward his face, "I can be a god with any name."

"Perhaps on the internet," Tsubaki says under her breath. "And even then, that's doubtful."

"I caught that," he says, jabbing his finger at her. "And I'll show you that I can excel at _anything_." His hair seems to inflate as he puffs out his chest. "Even art." As he dances out Tsubaki's reach, he calls to you, "I'd go find your dad if I were you. No way he'd come here of his own free will!"

With that, he hurtles off to another part of the exhibit.

"And to think this is what he calls a date," Tsubaki says, shaking her head with a sigh. "Though knowing him, I don't know why I expected different."

You snort. "You'd better go after him before he destroys the whole place."

"And then I'd have to destroy him." She brushes her hair back. "Are you sure you're alright being alone?" she asks.

"I'm fine," you say after a pause. You give her a bright smile. "I'm probably just going to track down my father before he embarrasses himself too much."

She gives your shoulder a squeeze. "Well, you know we're here if you have to pretend you don't know him." She grimaces at Black Star's yells from the other room. "Though if he's doing what I think he's doing, you may not want to know us."

You laugh as she walks away, waiting until she's out of the room to drop your smile. Then you spin around, heading for the stairs at the back of the room.

An agitated impatience drags its nails down your brain as you take the steps two at a time; it dances down your spine and lodges itself somewhere between your heart and stomach. You figure you probably _should_ go find your father if only for the sheer entertainment of watching his implosion over you voluntarily spending time with him. But like all the other times he tried to bond with you over the summer, you can't.

_You won't._

Stepping onto the second floor, you dart into the first room you spy and are relieved to find it nearly empty; you head straight to the back, rapidly walking past the old wizened woman hunched by the entrance.

You stare at the grotesque statue of the clown in front of you unseeingly, biting your lip. The thought of trying to right things with your father is simultaneously repulsive and appealing-one you only allow yourself to contemplate on the cusp of sleep, where any resolutions you come to crumble by morning.

It feels as if you're racing in place, desperately trying to be somewhere else but remaining firmly at ground zero; it's not something you can manage for much longer without running yourself into a hole you can't get out of.

Grinding your heel into the floor, you lean against the wall and fold your arms tightly across your chest, moving your thoughts in circles around your emotions.

You're not sure when you first become aware of the piano music. You don't hear it so much with your ears but feel it reverberate in your soul. Your head perks up, swiveling from left to right as you try to find its source, coming up empty. It's unlike any song you've heard before: moving at a rhythm just too fast and wild to listen to passively and infused with a melancholy that sounds so deeply personal that you feel as if you are intruding.

You glance at the old woman huddled at the front of room-she hasn't stirred but she's so buried underneath the layers of her robes that you'd be surprised if she could hear anything.

Briefly, you wonder if you should ignore the music but it appears your feet have developed a volition of their own, seeking out the chain of notes that have become embedded in your chest. The music seems to seep from the floor, growing louder as you're led to a door in the corner of the room's far end.

Sparing one last look around yourself, you try the doorknob surreptitiously; surprisingly it twists easily in your hand and the door swings open, revealing a narrow, rickety staircase.

You walk onto the landing, ignoring the employees-only sign hanging on the door. The stairs creak underneath your feet as you descend into semi-darkness; you squint as you step off the last stair. A large, dank basement looms out in front of you, filled with overstuffed crates that resemble shadowy ghosts.

The music comes from none of them but from down a hallway that branches off from the room. Your hands begin to sweat inside your gloves as you move forward; unlike the museum, the basement is muggy and cramped.

As you weave your way past the crates, it crosses your mind about how much trouble you can get in for being in a restricted area but you can't bring yourself to turn around now that you've came this far-you figure the worst that can happen if you do get caught is you and your father getting kicked out of the museum.

And that _might_ just be a blessing in disguise.

Your stride quickens once you clear the crates and move down the dim hallway and peek into open rooms for the swelling melody. The music inches to its crescendo just as you reach the last door of the hallway; you're too caught up in your eagerness on reaching it that you don't even notice the folded up snag in the rug.

You let out a yelp as you trip and slam your shoulder into the wall; you breathe out curses, tears springing to your eyes.

Immediately, the music comes to a grinding halt and there is absolute silence for a moment before you catch the sound of running footsteps.

You lurch to your feet and lunge forward for the door. "Hey, stop!"

Yanking the door open, you find nothing in the room except a black piano; the echo of its last notes still tremble in the air as you scour the room, completely baffled to find no one in it.

You refuse to give up, however, and on your second pass around the room, you spot in the corner behind the piano a door better fit for a child ajar. It's a tight squeeze as you cram yourself underneath the piano, through the doorway and into a dimly lit tunnel-it's so small that you have to hunch over to avoid hitting your head on the ceiling. Dust wafts down on your head as you move through the tunnel in a crouched jog, your calves beginning to ache when it inclines sharply, but you're able to follow the winding path at a quick pace, staying alert for any sounds ahead of you.

You are so bent on catching up to the mystery person that, rather come to a stop in front of the exit, you smack into it.

Rubbing your head, you push the door tentatively, frowning when it doesn't open. You push with more force now but it remains firmly shut. Letting out a huff, you inch back a bit, take a deep breath and hurl yourself at the door.

The door pops open with a bang and you spill out unceremoniously onto the floor. Blowing your bangs out of your eyes, you look up, finding yourself by a painting of the church and a statue of a man with the chainsaw.

A boy around your age contemplates a painting spanning the entire wall next to the one you just came out of; he appears completely unbothered by a girl bursting out of a wall. He looks as strange as the pieces of the museum with his white hair and crimson eyes. "The Gothic period was fascinating."

"Why is that?" You brush the dust from yourself and stand up, giving the painting a glance. It's far bigger than the _Abyss of Madness_ , a peculiar castle-like structure comprised of black and red soaring spires; three massive skulls front the building and gigantic candles span around in equal distances on either side and a sun wearing a slightly demented grin smiles overhead. Overall, it looks like something from a vintage horror movie which would seem to fit in with the boy's tastes, given his appearance.

"It's cool." He shrugs. "And honest."

You're not quite sure what the last part of that answer means so you fall silent. You scrutinize the boy out of the corner of your eye-he doesn't exactly strike you as the pianist type but he _is_ the only person in the room. Though if he was the person playing the piano, you're not sure why he would stick around since he ran away from you in the basement.

He speaks. "I can feel you staring."

You start. "Huh?"

"Subtlety is not your strong point." He turns toward you. "If you're gonna ask, you should just do it already."

You feel your face flush. Clearing your throat, you decide to pretend not to know what he is talking about. "Ask what?"

"The answer is yes, they're natural," he says, sounding almost bored. He bares his mouth in a humorless grin for a moment, revealing teeth better fit for a shark. "So are the teeth."

You blink. "That's not what I was going to ask."

"Right."

"I wasn't!" The sarcasm in his voice makes you bristle. "It's none of my business whether you were born looking like an albino porcupine or not."

To your surprise, he starts to laugh. You watch on in bewilderment as he doubles over, unsure if you should be sorry or offer first aid.

His laughter dries out to wheezy chuckles interspersed with gasping rasps. "Well," he says finally, taking a deep breath, "That's creative." He straightens, amusement in his eyes increasing at the still peeved expression on your face. "I gotta say I much prefer that than being compared to a demon."

"Glad to hear it was an insult you liked," you say, mashing your lips together to suppress your smile. Since the boy seems amenable, you decide to ask. "Did you see anyone else come out through there?"

"No one." His voice fades instantly back into cool disinterestedness again. "I don't think many people are fans of crawling around in places that are off-limits," he says, turning back to the painting.

"I-" You pause in the middle of your reply. "Wait a second, how did you know I was somewhere I shouldn't have been?" You squint at him, suspicion spiking as you notice the dust on his monstrous red and yellow jacket. "Unless you were there too."

"What?" he says, scowling. "No!"

"Yes," you take a step closer to him, "How else could you have known?"

A blush rises in the boy's cheeks and he raises his arms like he's shielding himself, calm veneer thrown off. "No, I-"

"I just want to know if you were the one playing the piano." You draw closer to the boy, hands on your hips. "There's no need to be embarrassed about it. I thought it was good."

His hands drop, all of the defensiveness in his face falling away. "Why?"

Your mouth opens. "I-"

"There you are, little brother!"

You both turn to see a man with white blond hair entering the room. "I was worried about where you wandered off," he says. He pauses when he sees you. "I hope I'm not interrupting something?"

You suddenly become aware that you are standing too close to the boy and jump back.

The boy slouches, glowering. "Wes, I'm not six, I told you I would come find you later," he says as the man comes to stop beside him.

"Six or sixteen, my worry remains the same," he replies genially. "Though I didn't know you wanted to be alone so you could meet a girl." His eyes glaze over the painting as he shifts his gaze to you. He gives you a broad smile. "Do you also go to Death City High?"

"I don't even know her," the boy snaps. "I mean," he says, scratching his head, "We just bumped into each other."

"I do go there," you answer quickly, looking at Wes. "But we've never met before." You back away. "Sorry for the misunderstanding," you say, looking back to the boy.

He opens and closes his hands before stuffing them into his pockets, glancing at you before staring at the floor. "Yeah." There is none of the previous boredom or nervousness remaining in his eyes.

Just sadness.

You desperately want to say something so he stays but you only smile as Wes excuses them and pretend not to watch him as they walk off together, something in your chest twisting when he disappears through the door. You stare at the doorway, mentally upbraiding yourself for not speaking up.

Smoothing your skirt, you sigh heavily, promising to seek out the boy before you leave. You turn your eyes back to the painting; despite its fantasticalness, there remains something about the entire piece that strikes you as real. You read the sign below it: _The Ordered World by Lord Death._

Frowning in confusion, you think back to _The First Kishin-_ you're sure the sign for had stated it was the only art work by Lord Death in the museum. You contemplate it for another moment before chalking it up to a mistake made by whoever wrote the sign.

Your father's face crops up in your mind again as you examine the sun's goofy grin. You grit your teeth-going to find him remains a thought that's unappealing as ever but you know if he isn't looking for you now, then he will be soon and _that_ is a spectacle you avoid at all costs.

Maybe if you put on a good face, he won't insist on going out to lunch afterwards, you think as you head to the door. Then, you can disappear into a book and your father can go do whatever he does when he's not needling at you for your attention.

You puff out your cheeks and exhale loudly in one breath, feeling the beginnings of a headache prick at your temples. The longer this day goes on, the more and more you look forward to starting school tomorrow so it can fill your time as well as the places in your mind you would rather avoid.

Your hand wraps around the handle just as the lights go out.


	3. Kenopsia

**Kenopsia (n: the eerie, forlorn atmosphere of a place that's usually bustling with people but is now abandoned and quiet.)**

* * *

The lights stay off for no more than a minute.

But in the time it takes for them to flicker back on, the darkness bears down on you like an anchor and you hear a rustling sound, a scratchy murmur that whispers unborn nightmares in your ear, before feeling something cold and inhuman brush across your face.

You choke back your scream, backing into the door just as the world blinks back into being. Hunching over, you gulp down deep breaths to slow your racing heart and press your palm against your cheek, where the darkness touched you. An iciness laced with malevolence radiates from it, spreading to the rest of your body.

Your fingertips dig dully into your skin through your glove when it reaches your heart.

Pushing your bangs from your eyes, you swallow hard and force yourself to straighten, warily scanning the room before you leave. You recognize the exhibit you enter as one from your exploration of the main level-you expect to see people milling about but instead find it completely vacant.

Nervously, you rub your fingers together, dread unraveling itself in your chest. "Papa?"

You bounce lightly on the balls of your feet, pausing in the middle of the room as you wait for the ear-splitting cry of your name in reply. But the only answer you receive is the faint echo of your voice mixed with the museum clock's methodical ticking.

Your stomach drops to the floor before you suddenly remember the reception Stein had mentioned.

Mentally shaking your head for scaring yourself, you start to breathe normally; still, as you make your way back to the main exhibit area, you notice the museum feels unnaturally quiet. There's an emptiness in the air that wasn't there before and the unblinking jet black pupils staring blankly from the windows send a chill up your back.

The prisoner's anguished face in _The First Kishin_ greets you as you enter the large hall. Not only is it empty but there is no sign anyone was even there.

You spin around, calling out, "Hello?"

The moment you speak, the lights begin to flicker off and on rapidly; the darkness does more than graze your face this time, yanking your arm upward so hard that your feet nearly leave the ground.

You wrench your arm back with a panicked yell and stumble back, bursting into a sprint for the lobby.

You all but collide into the lobby desk, seizing a black umbrella lying behind the counter. The lights still haven't returned to normal as you backpedal for the exit, head whipping back and forth. Your heart is pounding alarms in your ears as you fumble for the doorknob with your free hand, sure that if you go outside, then the world will start to make sense again.

The door handle refuses to twist even a little.

Mouth running dry, you drop the umbrella and shake the handle with both hands, even kicking your foot against the door, all to no avail. Dropping your arms to your side, you snatch the umbrella back up and don't move.

The lights stop flicking on and off as soon as you turn around. Your hands tighten around the umbrella-the adrenaline coursing through your veins is tugging at your limbs to move but the only place to go is back in the museum and that's the last thing you want to do.

Still, you think as you bite your lip, dozens of people can't disappear with no explanation-there has to be someone else in the museum.

You run forward before you can change your mind, up the stairs back to the first floor, taking the steps two at a time. Your father _has_ to be here.

It gets harder and harder to swallow your anxiety as you pace through the rest of the main floor, then race up to the second floor before descending back into the basement and you see no one, hear no one, _feel no one._

You don't dare try calling out again; the sharp tingle riding down the back of your neck and spine from the stares of the windows worsens the longer you search-they no longer seem to look at you blankly but appear to follow you, as if the museum itself is tracking your every move.

You're highly tempted to attempt breaking one of them by the time you return full circle to _The Ordered World_ , sweaty and frustrated and barely able to contain your panic. But you have a feeling that won't do you much good.

And something inside of you is deeply afraid of what would happen if you tried.

Glowering at the painting, the urge to scream rises to a peak.

The only thing holding you back is the fact that your father comes running at any sign of you in distress and if you scream and he doesn't show up, then that would mean you're indeed truly alone.

Your hands ball into fists around the umbrella and you drop your gaze to the floor, fighting against the angry stinging in your eyes.

You don't notice the words forming underneath your feet until the congealing black ooze reaches one of your shoes. You scramble backwards with a gasp, almost losing your balance.

The words glisten in the light like they're winking at you.

_Ma_

_ka_

_Maka_

_Maka_

_Makamakamakamakamaka_

Your mind is screaming at you to run but your knees are locked in place-your entire body is frozen.

More words surface from nothingness.

_follow_

_me_

_fol_

_low_

_mefol_

_lowfol_

_follow me followmefollowme_ _followmefollowme_ _followmefollowme_ _followmefollowme_ _followmefollowme_ _followmefollowme_ _followmefollowme_

Inky footprints silently trail out from the words and to the door; it swings open with a whisper of a groan and the footprints tramp out of the door and out of view. You stare at the words, coming back to life in twitches and shallow breaths. The shining liquid on the floor would look like blood if it wasn't the deepest black.

There are two explanations to this and you aren't sure which you prefer to believe: that what you're seeing is real or that this is your mind finally cracking.

You read the words again.

_Follow me?_

You breathe out, feeling returning in your legs, and after deliberating for another moment, you follow the footprints. You tug at your gloves and grip the umbrella firmly, shaking off your fear-you've never been one to give up a fight easily, even if this one's against your mind.

They take you in a weaving path around the main floor; the museum lights click off as you pass under them, leaving you at the border of the growing darkness. You keep your eyes trained on the footprints and nothing else, following them until you're standing outside the entrance to the main exhibit area; they're replaced by a haphazard mess of words dancing around you like they're ushering you in.

_here_

_he_

_re_

_he re_

_here_

_HEREHEREHE_

_REHERE_

_HEREHEREHEREHEREHEREHEREHEREHEREHEREHEREHEREHEREHEREHEREHEREHEREHEREHEREHEREHERE_

You eye the words, heart thrumming in your chest. Then, inhaling deeply, you push open the door.

Minus a broken section of the rope barrier around _The Abyss of Madness_ , the room is virtually unchanged, however, a sense of dread twists knots in your soul as you enter; every inch of your body is yelling at you to turn back and run.

But you have no one to run to so the only option is to move forward.

You approach the floor painting warily and glance around, avoiding meeting the prisoner's gaze. _The Abyss of Madness_ stretches out wide before you with its masses of rolling waves; you pause and look more closely at the painting, feeling your mouth run dry.

The souls are gone.

They're nowhere to be seen in or around the painting, as if they had been swallowed up. Without them, the abyss loses any benevolence it possessed, looking like the maw of some great beast.

Letters splatter haphazardly around around your feet.

_COME_

_IN_

_COME_

_SIDE_

_IN_

_SIDE_

_COME_

_IN_

_SIDE_

_COMEINSIDE_

Edging forward, you toe the border of the painting and peer over, feeling like you're perched on the edge of a skyscraper. Everything has taken on a dreamlike quality-you wouldn't believe this is real if it wasn't for the bitter taste of fear in your mouth and the sweat running down the back of your neck.

You stare into the abyss, tension pooling in your legs and winding them tight like springs. The paint no longer looks like paint at all but resembles the black ooze of the letters and footprints; some of it has overlapped the abyss' borders as if someone had fallen in and the paint had slopped out.

Your toes curl and uncurl in your boots. No matter how much you reason that nothing is going to happen when you step onto the painting, there is a much stronger voice in your mind telling you otherwise-what you should is go and wait in the lobby until the world regains its normal strangeness.

Still, you don't move.

The heavy silence is broken by a quiet sound trickling forth from the abyss. Your breath catches as you register the ghost of the song murmuring from the murk, eyes widening with recognition. The melody from earlier is distant, as if it had traveled miles to reach you; but it's clear, whole.

It sings courage to you.

You release the breath you didn't know you were holding. Although your heart is still lodged in your throat, the fear freezing your limbs in place melts away. You lick your lips, bend your knees slightly and tighten your hold on the umbrella.

Then, closing your eyes, you step onto the painting.


	4. Nodus Tollens

**Nodus Tollens (n: the realization that the plot of your life doesn't make sense to you anymore.)**

* * *

Your eyes snap open as you feel something coiling between your feet; you can't do anything more than gasp in horror at the sight of inky tendrils looping around your ankles before they lace tight against your skin.

The museum spins in your vision dizzyingly as you're yanked around the painting. You catch one last glimpse of the museum before you're swallowed by the abyss, blinded and deafened by the liquid darkness. It pushes hungrily against your lips; you clamp your mouth shut and fight against the urge to breathe, pressure building steadily in your lungs.

You sink at a snail's pace: moving is all but impossible and it takes all your energy to force yourself into a tight ball.

But even if you could move freely, you wouldn't.

The darkness crawls over your skin like maggots, searching and probing for a weak spot to dig its claws into you. And as it looks, you feel the rancid rot of madness it breathes on your soul-it's a siren call that is as horrifying as it is tempting and you press your hand against your mouth, eyes watering as your body screams for oxygen.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you dig deep for something to hold onto, replaying the melody that brought you here in the first place over and over in your head. Even though every sensation other than the darkness is lost to you, the song sparks a flame in your chest that you refuse to let go of.

Your exit out of the darkness is abrupt. A suctioning noise which pounds on your sensitive ears announces your entrance into reality, immediately followed by a sweeping sensation in your stomach as you fall through air and a spray of stars that bursts in your vision when you land hard on the floor.

You lie there, spluttering and gasping for breath.

When you finally open your eyes, you're greeted by an entirely white room that is almost painful to look at after falling through the abyss.

Sitting up slowly, you rub your head. You lost the umbrella in the abyss but surprisingly, none of the darkness stuck to your skin or your clothes.

Shakily, you stand and glance around yourself. The room you're in is little more than a square big enough to contain you. High above you, on the ceiling, roils the raven wings of the abyss but none of it reaches for you, held back by some invisible force.

You look away and take another breath, embracing the crisp taste of air on your tongue. Then, rolling back your shoulders, you leave the room.

The cool dark gray of the hallway is much more bearable on your eyes. A quiet dread pricks at you to be cautious but it's nothing like how you felt in the museum. At the end of the hallway, you step into the middle of a rectangular room. On either side of you hangs two paintings of an ornate manor, virtually identical except that the one on the right is in black and white and the one on the left is in color.

You peer over to the right and begin to move forward before stopping suddenly. Pausing, you squint over your shoulder to the left-there's something familiar calling to you from that direction and you hesitate only for a moment before letting your feet guide the way.

Next to another door is a decrepit desk that leans against the wall-on its counter lies a small gray key. You pick it up but still feel that invisible sensation tugging at you. Out of the corner of your eye, you spy something metal gleaming at you from the furthest corner of the room.

Pocketing the key, you hurry towards it, mouth dropping wide open as you see what it is.

For being well over a head taller than you, the scythe is astonishingly light. You hoist it above your head experimentally-somehow it feels right in your hands. The snaith is iron gray, save for the line of bright jade running through the middle, and the blade is alternating triangles of gray and green, with winglike curls of metal sitting atop the oval-shaped attachment ring.

Lowering the scythe, you run a hand across the blade's smooth surface and then examine the ring. One of the souls from the _Abyss of Madness_ lies within it, glowing blue and covered by glass; like the scythe, the soul has wings sprouting from the top.

Tracing the soul's outline with a gloved finger, you frown, puzzled at the sense of familiarity running through your body. Through the glass, the soul pulses underneath your fingertip like a heartbeat.

You study it for another minute before gripping the snaith in the middle to hold the scythe loosely at your side. Turning your attention over to the door by the desk, you fish for the key in your pocket with your free hand.

As you insert the key into the lock, a resounding bang from the other side splits a narrow crack down the door's middle.

With a startled yell, you spring back and swing out the scythe in front of you, watching the door tremble from the force of whatever lies behind it and feeling the steady beating of the scythe's soul turn into wild thrumming that sends reverberations all the way down the snaith.

An ominous silence falls upon the room once the door stops rattling in its frame; you eye it warily, not trusting the quiet. No matter how you strain your ears, you can't hear any movement on the other side and the crack in the door isn't wide enough to let you see anything.

Your eyes dart to the right before sliding over to the key, still in the half-turned lock. You bite your lip-there's no way that you can leave it in there.

Tightening your grip on the scythe, you leap forward before you can doubt yourself. You rip the key from the lock, swerving to the side just as blades the size of dinner plates punch through the door and through the space your head was only seconds ago.

The force of the door breaking knocks you off your feet and you narrowly avoid impaling yourself on your scythe by falling on your side.

Scrambling up, you brandish the scythe wildly, squinting through the dust and debris at the large shadow emerging from the doorway. You intake sharply as the air clears.

The monster of the _Jack the Ripper_ statue from the museum leers at you greedily, mouth filled with serrated teeth spreading wide in a demonic grin. The blades serving for fingers glint in the light, moving in time with the wings of fluid darkness erupting from its waist.

You don't have time to think about it any further as the creature launches itself at you with a burst of speed, dodging just in time to keep its blades from running you through.

The clang of metal striking against metal echoes as you whip the blade of the scythe up instinctively, blocking the creature's strike from its other hand. It adapts quickly, however, hand wrapping around where the head of the blade meets the snaith and jerking violently.

You cry out, a sharp pain shooting through your head, and barely manage to keep your grip on the scythe only through sheer will. But that is a mistake because instead of letting go, the creature drags both you and the scythe as one easily. Your feet dangle helplessly in the air as it pulls the scythe upward and lashes out.

The scythe is ripped from your hands and you sail across the room and into the wall, crashing onto the desk heavily; it crumples under the strength of the creature's throw and you land on the ground face-up.

Your vision bleeds black and red, something liquid and sticky trickling down the back of your head and neck. Groaning between gasps for breath, you roll onto your side, tasting blood.

The creature still has your scythe-it tosses it to the side as it approaches you menacingly.

You hiss in pain when the head of the blade strikes the floor, clutching your head which boils with an intensifying pain. As you feel a shadow cross over you, you open your eyes, forcing yourself to sit up.

The creature stands in front of you, head scraping the ceiling as it rises to its full height and raises an arm.

Swallowing your fear of certain death, you meet the creature's gaze defiantly, hand wrapping around a fragment of the desk.

You hurl it at its face as it begins to bring its arm down, not waiting to see if it has met its mark and diving through the space between its legs, only reflexes and a single-minded focus as you dash for the scythe.

You're moving too fast to stop and pick up it so you use your momentum to skid on your knees, seizing it and swinging in an arc behind you. Your chest heaves, breaths coming out in shallow pants as the scythe trembles in your hand.

Something metal grazes at the back of your neck. You swallow hard, bracing yourself, and twist around slowly. The point of one of the creature's blades winks at you, centimeters away from your eye.

It is kept from plunging into your brain by the blade sticking out of the creature's chest. Its body twitches in starts and stops, arm falling to the side as inky blood flows freely from the wound. Its eyes, endless tunnels of pitch-black, find yours before it goes limp and falls forward.

You drop the scythe and clamber backwards, the sound of bone crunching and flesh tearing apart bouncing off the walls as the blade pushes through the creature's back and splits it open.

For a moment, you do nothing but watch as blood continues to ooze from the dead creature. Then, you prod the creature's shoulder once with your shoe, tension releasing from your body when it doesn't move.

Your eyes water as you inch back and immediately wince, adrenaline wearing off and the number the creature did on you setting in. You stagger to your feet and glance down at yourself, suddenly struck by a fierce compulsion to laugh.

One that makes no sense given the ugly bruise starting to form on your thigh, the fact that both of your knees are scraped up beyond recognition and your entire body _aches_ from colliding with the wall. Worst of all is the pounding in your head that matches time with your heart-it sets your world spinning and throws a hazy light over your vision that tints everything a reddish black.

But somehow it is astonishingly easy to wrench the scythe from the creature's body.

Twirling the scythe in your hands, you watch with feverish fascination as the black blood comes to life and envelops the creature's body in undulating coils, pulling it within its depths until there is nothing left of it but a black stain on the ground.

You totter as you take a few steps backwards and tip forward, catching yourself with the scythe and grinning at your reflection in the blade before your gaze moves to the soul in the ring. Tittering, you rub hard at the smudge of darkness encircling the soul, humming as you rock back and forth on your heels, before remembering the glass.

Tapping the glass reprovingly, you wheel around the scythe in a circle, ducking your head just before you're about to smack into the blade. A voice whispers warnings at the back of your mind but you don't care enough to listen.

A flash of white amid the debris catches your eye and you stop abruptly on the balls of your toes to pluck it up.

The smudged words on the piece of paper are just discernible through the dirt.

_Do not open door._

The room echoes with your laughter as you crumple the paper in your hand, toss it on the ground and whirl around again, ambling away without a backwards glance.


	5. Aienkien

**合縁奇縁** **| aienkien (n: expression used to describe an uncanny relationship. It characterizes a couple who have met by a quirk of fate, but are strangely happy and deeply bonded by their unusual attraction and course of destiny.)**

* * *

You sing cheerily, rapping your scythe against the ornate double doors at the other end of the room.

Your eyes narrow when no one answers: doors exist to be opened. Swinging the scythe forward, you wedge the tip of the blade into the crack between the doors and jiggle it hard to no avail.

Pulling back, you glower at the skull-shaped mask carved into the doors' surface before lashing out. The scythe reverberates in your hand but the doors remain unaffected. Growling, you rain down vicious blows on the mask, yelling epithets at the mask's eyes staring down benignly at you.

Something falls out of your pocket and you pause in your barrage, looking down. You let out a small gasp at the key lying on the ground, allowing the scythe to clatter to the floor and snatching the key up with a pleased sound. A key is much more suited to defeating a door than a scythe.

It takes you a few minutes and more than a few tries to insert the key into the glove-shaped lock. You snap the key in the lock as the door creaks open, picking up the scythe and skipping through the doorway and into a hall.

The black and white tiles of the hall delight you; your tongue sticks out in concentration as you hop from black tile to black tile. You wobble dangerously when you land on the side of your foot before tipping forward and spilling onto the floor.

"Ashes, ashes, they all fall down," you trill, sitting up and snickering. The words ring oddly in your head, pulling forth a fuzzy memory of a red-haired man spinning around with you in a circle before sweeping you up to croon a lullaby in your ear.

Your laughter falters. You wrap your arms around your knees, laying your head on them. "I'm not that small anymore."

A tiny giggle, empty and stale, escapes from your mouth. You swallow the rest of your mirth-there's no fun in laughing alone.

The scythe scrapes across the floor as you stand and look around for an exit, shoulders slumping and head sinking dejectedly when you see no exit sign. You want to go home.

Out of the corner of your eye, you glimpse a shadowy figure in the distance and you lift your head, exclaiming loudly when you turn your head and it doesn't disappear. You wave your scythe in the air frantically as you scramble towards the figure, enthusiastic cries turning into petulant sulking when the figure comes into clear view.

The angel statue standing in the middle of the water fountain has her eyes closed but she isn't snoring, which you find strange. Water sloshes into your boots as you traipse into the fountain, climb up on the statue's pedestal and sniff the statue's white dress.

Edging back, you eye the angel's outstretched hands spread in eternal welcome and reach out to touch her face, the stone warm against your fingers. You can't put your finger or nose on it but staring at the angel is soothing.

And draining, somehow. You yawn widely, exhaustion buckling your knees and making the ground look inviting.

You gaze at the statue with eyes half-closed for a moment before plunking the scythe onto the angel's gloved hands, resting your arms on the snaith and laying your head down. Your eyes drift closed and you bury your face in the crook of your elbow-you'll sleep here only for a little while.

Something gentle and melodious sings down to you from somewhere above as you fall into a state between dreaming and consciousness, lighting a warmth in your body that fans out from your chest. As the song slowly envelops your entire being, the pain radiating from your wounds dulls, something heavy lifting from your mind when it reaches your head.

Your eyes snap open and you swallow a gasp, heart thumping wildly and body wound tight. You feel as if you've just woken up from a nightmare but your mind is strangely clear and light.

Panting in short and shallow breaths, you wiggle your feet to regain sensation in your legs and feel rather than hear the squish of sodden socks clinging to your skin, icy water seeping between your feet.

Rubbing the sleep from your face, you raise your head, completely baffled to find yourself standing in the middle of a water fountain in a hall checkered in black and white that looks foreign and familiar at the same time.

You strain to recall exactly what happened but your memory between now and the aftermath of being attacked unspools in blurred chunks with rare snippets of crystalline sight and sound; what you can remember makes you feel like you're watching someone else inhabit your body-hearing yourself coming unraveled like that sends an uncomfortable tingle down your back.

Grimacing, you pick up your scythe from the angel's ash-colored hands, half turned before freezing abruptly and making an about-face. You stare the angel's gown, the color of falling dusk.

The angel of your memories was dressed in white.

You look down at your scythe; it gleams brightly in the light and the tiny blue soul in the scythe's ring brims with vitality, showing no signs of having been in a fight.

Neither do you, you realize as you examine yourself-the bruise running down your thigh is gone along with the scrapes on your knees and the pulsing headache from earlier has completely vanished.

You study the angel in front of you curiously. Did the statue heal you?

A distant crash accompanied by a very human yell from somewhere above startles you out of your reverie.

"I'm not alone," you whisper after a moment. Your eyes widen as the realization sinks in. "I'm not alone!"

You leap from the statue's pedestal, ignoring the sting of the icy water at your ankles, calling out, "Hello?" You crane your head and spin around in a circle, straining your ears. "Is anyone here?"

The echoes from your cries die away into silence as you listen impatiently. The twin staircases on either side of the fountain stretch out into darkness, which make it impossible for you to see anything beyond the landing.

Your grip on your scythe tightens, the image of Jack the Ripper checking the urge to move forward. You rub the scythe between your fingers as you think-you don't want to run into another one of those monsters again.

Then you glance towards the staircases. But what if whoever is here with you is in trouble?

You suck in a breath before heading to a staircase, socks squishing noisily in your shoes. Your step slows when you reach the top; you press your back against a wall, inching forward cautiously.

The stone corridor stretching out in front of you is long and narrow, arched doorways almost touching the ceiling. Dim orange light and soft crackling from torches on the walls breaks the murky quiet as you creep down the corridor, careful but eager.

Your anticipation gives way doubt, however, the longer you go without seeing anyone. You begin to question whether the yell you heard was real or a sign of your crumbling sanity.

Something warm and solid turns your feet into a flailing tangle of limbs as you round a corner; you give an involuntary yelp, scythe clanging against the ground as you swing out your arm to break your fall.

Groaning, you push yourself onto your knees and twist your head to see what tripped you. Another choked cry escapes from you when you see the body on the ground and you scramble to your feet, hastily grabbing your scythe.

Chest heaving, you stand there and stare at the prone body, unsure if you should thrust your scythe in its back to be safe.

Then you recognize the head of white hair.

"You?"

Dropping your scythe, you approach the boy from the museum and crouch down, rolling him over gently to find his eyes screwed shut with his finger hooked in his mouth as he mumbles incoherently. " _...don't want...it's black….black, everything is black…."_

"Hello?" You nudge his shoulder, pulling his hand from his mouth. "Can you hear me?"

A desperate laugh mixed with a shriek bursts from his lips at your words, the fingers in the hand you hold twitching rhythmically. The boy continues that way until you squeeze his hand, falling back into disjointed mutterings.

Your gaze falls to your scythe, several things you've been harboring at the back of your mind fitting into place. You rise, picking up the scythe. "I'll be back," you tell the boy, though you're certain he isn't aware of your existence.

You're not sure where to even start as you pace down the hallway, trying doors at random and finding them locked. In fact, you're not even sure if your theory is correct. Biting back a frustrated sigh, you keep moving.

As you search, your focus is pulled by something dancing at the corner of your eye. But every time you turn around to get a better look at it, nothing's there.

"Looking for me?" a voice asks after you whirl around for the millionth time.

You swing your scythe in front of you as you wheel towards the voice.

"Don't stab me," says a cat in a painting you are positive wasn't there before. The cat leaps lightly from the tree branch it was lounging on to the roof of the pumpkin house that dominates the painting. "I'll get cross."

"Paintings don't talk," you say reflexively.

The cat licks her paw. "Says the girl trapped in one."

You forget your previous reservations and step closer to the painting. "What?"

The cat's purple fur puffs out slightly and her eyes dart from side to side. "Ahh, let's forget I said that."

"Not very likely," you reply. "What's going on?"

"It's nothing too concerning," the cat asserts delicately. "Listen, do you want my help or not?"

"For what?"

The cat's voice becomes smooth and knowing once again. "Why, for finding the boy's scythe, of course."

You bring your face to where the cat sits, asking excitedly, "You saw where it went?"

"As well as who took it," the cat answers with a nod. "It's not very good to be separated from your scythe or get it damaged, you know."

"Yeah, I kinda figured that out," you say, glancing at your scythe. "Now, where is it?"

"Not so fast," the cat replies, stretching. "One good turn does deserve another. Wouldn't you agree?"

You barely keep from rolling your eyes. "What do you want?"

"What all cats want," she says. "Fish."

"There's none where you are?" you say skeptically. "I find that hard to believe."

"One of the things this world is ill-stocked with, un-fur-tunately." The cat's tail unfurls as she finishes stretching. "Otherwise it'd be purr-fect."

"The tragedy." You can't hold back your eye roll now. "Why don't you come here and get the fish yourself?"

"And leave this for _that_?" The cat looks almost affronted. "As a cat who likes the world in her painting very much, even fish isn't worth crossing over."

"Crossing over?" you repeat, furrowing your brow. "You mean you wouldn't be able to return to your painting if you came over here?"

"Nope, it's a choice very few paintings make," the cat answers. "Probably why the statues and other exhibits are so murderous, they didn't get a choice."

"Choice?" you say. "Who made this world? Why am I here?"

"Too many questions," the cat cries, covering her ears with her paws.

"But-"

"I want my fish," she insists.

You give up-you don't have time to argue with a fictional cat. "Fine, I'll get you your fish."

"That's what I like to hear," the cat says, lowering her paws and standing. "I'm going to take a catnap. I'll find you when you're done."

You pause. "How?"

"Just leave that to me," she replies, batting open the window to the pumpkin house.

"Wait," you say hastily. "I have one more question. About me, not you."

The cat sighs and flicks her golden eyes to you. "What is it?"

"If you came here, you'd be unable to go back to your world," you start. "So does that mean the same is true for me and that boy?"

The cat winks at you. "You don't belong here, now do you?"

With that, she disappears into the house.

* * *

You glower at the door in front of you, smugly locked, the sign _Crescent Moon_ hanging neatly above it.

Had you been warned that today you would be roped into fetching fish for a fictional cat, you would have laughed but here you are, having spent at least a half an hour searching for a fish you're not even sure exists and finding nothing but mazes of staircases around every corner and doors that refuse to open.

Gritting your teeth, you continue walking down the corridor. After your encounter with the cat, you'd decided to keep going forward; the thought of walking past the boy passed out on the ground to search cringe-inducing.

Another intersection of corridors forces you to stop. Your fingers tap against the scythe as you debate whether searching in another direction would be a good idea, even though the branching tunnels all look the same to you. On the other hand, you've found nothing in choosing to travel in a straight line and every second that ticks by increases the impatient itching underneath your skin by tenfold.

You mull it over for another moment before going left, counting off doors as you pass them. Your breath catches in your throat when a bend in the corridor opens up into a domed anteroom, a large board plastered with papers on the right wall while a desk window in the shape of a very familiar skull logo sits directly on the left.

Blinking rapidly, you draw near the desk and stare at Lord Death's motif, completely perplexed.

The sound of running water splinters your trance, reminding you of your current mission. You continue to gaze at the skull as you walk off, shoving away your questions and theories for later.

The fountain gurgling at the end of the room is identical to the one downstairs, except that the angel standing serenely in its center is still dressed in a dazzling white. You peer down into the water, temptation to drink curbed by the knowledge from the days of your middle school mythology obsession. The floor and walls of the fountain are covered in shimmery squares of light blue stone that are broken up by blocks of gold, which closer inspection reveals the blocks to actually be _fish_ , albeit abstractly shaped.

You nearly topple into the water in excitement. drenching your sleeve. A flash of gold weaves upward from the bottom and you catch sight of a fish tail pumping frantically away from the ripples you created.

The sight of a mosaic fish coming to life is not an alarming one for you anymore; you track the fish with your eyes as you peel off your coat slowly and wait until the water settles to make your move.

It takes much longer than you anticipated to sneak up on the fish-for a work of art, it is surprisingly alert and you have resort to creeping in a crouch to keep it from being startled.

Your knees begin to protest as you peek over the edge of the fountain wall for the umpteenth time and spot the fish nibbling at the surface. Throwing out a silent wish, you raise the cape part of your coat high and fling it across the surface, reeling it in hurriedly.

Bunching up the coat at its ends, you flip it onto the floor and watch as water leaks out. With bated breath, you press tentatively on it until you feel a frantic little thump against the palm of your hand. Letting out a sigh of relief, you stand with a firm grip on your prize.

"That was quite a show."

Spinning around, you see the cat lounging lazily on the house's roof in her painting. You scowl, keenly aware of the spectacle you must be. "Were you watching the whole time?"

"Only when it was interesting," she says. "Like just now."

You refrain from retorting and instead hold up your coat. "Here's your damn fish."

"Well, I can't go and get it, can I?" the cat replies evenly. "Give it here."

You approach the painting and hesitate. "Are you sure you'll be able to catch this?"

"Of course." The cat's tail twitches jerkily. "Just throw it in already!"

Your temper sparks; you don't throw the fish in so much as lob it at the cat, watching as its stone scales take on an oily quality as it enters the painting and is caught in one graceful leap by the cat.

She gives a contented sigh after she swallows the fish, lying out on her side and closing her eyes lazily. "Tasty."

You clear your throat pointedly.

"Yes, yes, I haven't forgotten my end of the deal." The cat waves her paw at you and gets to her feet. "Now, I don't leave my world," she says, disappearing into the house. "But that doesn't stop things from coming into mine."

She reappears with a key in her mouth, releasing this with a toss of her head.

You catch it, laying it out on your palm. The key is bronze and small with a skull engraved at its head.

"A skeleton key for you," the cat says with a proud air.

"Useful," you say, pocketing the key. "But not if I have to open every door in this place."

The cat scrunches her nose. "I didn't say I was finished."

You wait with badly feigned patience, wondering whether the nine lives adage holds true for cat paintings as the cat languidly rolls out her shoulders.

She speaks again before you decide to find out if it's true or not. "So there I was, enjoying a nice bath when I peek out of my window and I see scythe boy running down the hall." The cat pouts. "I tried playing hide and seek with him like I did with you but he didn't even look at me."

"I was trying to get ahead of him so he'd notice me when I heard him yell. Then I saw one of the paintings dashing off with his scythe so I followed." Her purple-black fur gleams dully in the light as she rises.

"And?" you say.

"Don't ruin my story," the cat says grumpily. "They didn't get very far, apparently carrying a scythe while being stuck in a painting slows you down. They locked themselves in the Crescent Moon classroom."

The sign from before flashes in front of your eyes. "I know where that is!" You speed off, tossing a "Thanks!" behind you.

You sprint down the corridor, making a sharp right at the intersection and ignoring the burning in your calves until you are standing in front of the door with a crescent moon etched on its surface.

Doubling over, you suck in quick breaths for a minute before swallowing thickly and forcing yourself to straighten. You pull out the key, a strong sense of deja vu hitting you as you slide it into the lock. Midway turning the key, you stop, the thought that the monster may have already sensed you and is lying in wait occurring to you.

Withdrawing the key from the lock, you bend down and squint into the keyhole. You can only see a staircase lined with rows of counters and chairs leading downward, but you figure not having something sharp immediately plunged into your skull is a good sign.

Your thrumming heart pulses like a fire trapped in your rib cage as you get up; it's burned the fear in your veins to ashes and hardened them into an iron courage that melds into the marrow of your bones.

The lock clicks as you open the door and you step inside quietly, eyeing the downsloping lecture hall. A discordant and metallic cacophony worse than nails raking down a chalkboard scratches at your ears from the bottom.

You're only able to see the back of a shadowy and oddly shaped figure thrashing erratically on the floor, catching the glint of the boy's scythe being waved wildly in the air.

It's a stroke of luck in a day that has been entirely devoid of it; you creep down the stairs with careful movements, freezing when the last stair creaks underneath your feet. However, the creature doesn't notice, still swinging the scythe around.

You hunch behind a counter and peek out. Up close, the monster is much more visible than a shadow; unlike Jack the Ripper, it would be passable for a priest, if it weren't for the fact the upper half of his body is sticking out of a painting.

The scythe is steady in your hands as you weigh the situation-you refuse to repeat your fight with Jack the Ripper. To the side of the rampaging painting, you spy a teacher's desk that has a much better vantage point than where you are.

You watch until the painting is completely facing away from you to make a break for the desk, ducking behind it. From here, you can see the priest's old weathered face clearly, a monk's cap covering his head. The prayer beads around his neck jangle as he flails the scythe from side to side, a wordless roar coming from his mouth. Beneath the ruckus, you hear a strange dripping sound.

Crouching low again, you crawl to the other side of the desk. Getting a firm grip on the scythe, you breathe in once as the painting comes into your line of sight.

Then you breathe out and leap forward, jamming the scythe into the back of the painting and pushing it in as far you can go with a strained groan.

The same black blood from Jack the Ripper runs down the painting's back, broken canvas peeling back like withered petals. You wait for another moment before prying the scythe from the painting.

You circle the painting cautiously, the boy's scythe half-hidden underneath it. As you bend down to pick it up, a hand shoots out from the painting and laces around your wrist.

The burning yellow of the priest's eyes burns into yours. His grip around your wrist tightens and the painting speaks for the first time, voice a grating rasp. "Bullets can't hurt me."

You wrench your hand free and drive your scythe into the painting's skull. "There are no bullets here."

Save for the black blood, the inside of a painting's brain is not much different from a real person's brain, a messy goop of grey-pink filled with dead, unseen thoughts. You almost feel sorry before remembering what the painting would have done to you, given half the chance.

You pick up the boy's scythe and examine it. For knowing the boy all of a few minutes, the piano keys spanning the blade is unsurprising to you. The red line running down the snaith stands out brightly against the black of the scythe, connecting to a small soul that glows like an ember at the head.

If it wasn't swimming in black blood, that is.

You touch the glass, the soul nothing but a feeble shadow flopping pathetically against your finger. While you still can't remember much when you were injured, you do remember seeing the black blood in your scythe's soul.

But where the blood in yours was a mere blot, the boy's soul is in the process of being swallowed whole. The black blood overflows from the soul, running down silently on the blade in inky rivulets and falling onto the floor with a familiar dripping sound.

Your mouth presses into a thin line and you whirl around, sprinting for the stairs.

The soft babbling of the fountain greets you as the angel statue comes into view. You leap into the fountain without slowing down and slam down the boy's scythe on the angel's hands with trembling fingers.

You step back and wait, breathless. For a moment, nothing happens.

Then, something shifts in the air, the only way you can describe it is light but it is not something any of your senses can translate; when you inhale, a warm, heady, ethereal electricity charges your body from the inside out, the keen realization that you are _alive_ etched onto your tingling skin.

And as soon you're aware, it vanishes and with it, the memory of feeling. You stand there, dazed and dumbfounded, and think back to before but knowing is not the same thing as feeling.

Then, you blink and your world sharpens back into focus as does the pristine scythe lying in the angel's hands. Like the statue downstairs, the angel's dress is no longer white, but the color of pitch. You contemplate the statue with a curious frown and then place your scythe, slightly blemished from the fight, onto the angel's hands.

There is no change in the air, nothing at all. Disappointed but suspicions confirmed, you take your scythe and head to the corridor without any more delay-it's been too long since you last saw the boy.

"You found it."

You don't start at the cat's voice-you catch the painting just out of the corner of your eyes as you walk, the corner of your mouth lifting. "I had a little help."

"From a gracious cat, I hear." The cat keeps pace with you and you glimpse painting ambles into view. "Gorgeous too."

You raise an eyebrow. "Don't push it." Then, you pause even though you are itching to stay moving, searching for something that will properly convey your feelings. "Thank you," you say finally. "I couldn't have done this alone."

"Not all of us here want to see you fail." The playfulness tone in the cat's voice is gone. "I'd like to see you survive." Her whiskers droop. "But I can't help you anymore after this."

"Why?" Your hands squeeze tightly around the scythe as you step closer. "What's happening?"

"It's not what's going on," the cat says, shaking her head. "It's what is. And it's not worth explaining what can't be changed. Plus, it gives me a headache."

" _Nothing_ is unchangeable," you answer with an unexpected fervor. "There has to be something I can do."

The cat titters nervously. "Not unless you're in the mood for burning down the world."

"Possibly," you mutter. "Give me the match and we'll find out."

"A pity there's none here," the cat answers. She pauses, golden eyes somber. "Be careful."

You summon a smile before walking away. "I'll try."

* * *

The boy hasn't moved from where you left him, though as you bend down, you notice that he has fallen quiet and that his breathing is less labored

You sit on your knees beside him, hesitating, not sure what else, if anything else, you're supposed to do. Replaying your first encounter with the angel to the best of your memory, you look down at the boy's scythe, tuck it into his hand and then sit back to watch the boy patiently.

Your patience dries up exactly one minute later.

Exhaling exasperatedly, you lean close to the boy; the hair falling in his eyes flutter under your breath as you scrutinize his face for any sign of him waking up. As you reach out to brush his hair away, his eyes flicker, dazed and bleary. They meet yours and snap wide open. " _What the hell are you doing?"_

You scramble back, feeling your cheeks burn, and then your temper flares. "Saving your life," you snap, scowling. " _That's_ what I was doing."

The boy sits up. "By giving me a heart attack?"

"How about by returning your scythe?" you shoot back.

"Wha-" He looks down at the scythe in his hands. His brow furrows in confusion. "I don't remember losing it."

You tilt your head to one side. "What do you remember?"

"I-" He swallows and his fingers begin to fidget. "...you know how we got here? And what's here?"

"You mean the ocean of black gunk and the art work trying to kill us?" you say with a humorless laugh. "If so, then yes, I know it very well."

"Yes, exactly," he says eagerly, tension draining from his face. "I mean," he clears his throat, "I was trying to find a way out of here when something hit the back of my head. I thought I'd woken up but then I saw-" He frowns and breaks off, looking away.

"You saw something?" you ask.

He rubs at a spot on one of his scythe's piano keys. "Never mind, I'm fine now."

"I was attacked and I got a little weird after that too," you say after a moment. "It's not something to blame yourself for."

He still doesn't look at you but his hands still. "I guess."

You sense his unwillingness to talk about it and decide not to push any further. "Well," you say, rising, "I guess we better get going." You extend a hand out to him. "Coming?"

He looks up and gazes at you before taking your hand. "Yeah."

"Maka," you say by way of introduction as you pull him to his feet.

He lets go of your hand. "Soul."


	6. Oblivion

**Oblivion (n:** **the state of being completely forgotten or unknown. It also connotes feelings of isolation and aloofness, which lead to the annihilation or extinction of the self metaphorically.)**

* * *

Your conversation with the cat replays in your head as you and Soul begin to walk and you glance at him curiously. "So have you, um, spoken with any of the art here?"

He snorts. "The two statues I ran into were too busy trying to take my head off to talk. There was this cat painting that kept following me around though."

"She helped me find your scythe," you say. "While we were talking, there was something she let slip that makes me think I know where we are."

Soul looks at you now. "And where is that?"

"Do you remember the painting you were looking at when I found you?" you ask. "An Ordered World?"

"Yes," he says slowly.

"The Ordered World is a painting that isn't even supposed to exist. All of Lord Death's art were destroyed in a fire except for the First Kishin," you say. "When I was searching for your scythe, I found his insignia in here."

You sweep the bangs from your face. "I can swear I've seen it somewhere else too." You look at Soul, straining your memory. "And your brother...he couldn't even see the painting, could he?"

The expression on his face is uncertain and his eyebrows knit together. "Are you saying we're trapped in a painting?"

"We did enter the Abyss of Madness to get here," you remind him defensively. "It's not completely far-fetched." You amend your statement. "Given everything that's happened."

"I'm not doubting you," he says. "It's just-" He scratches his head, hesitating before adding, "I was convinced this was in my mind before you came along."

Blinking, you face Soul. "It's a good thing I found you then."

"A very good thing," he says, meeting your eyes. He switches his scythe from hand to hand. "So we're stuck in this Ordered World painting."

You nod and start to walk again. "It's the only thing that makes any of this make sense."

Soul falls into step with you. "Well, then wouldn't going back the way we came here be the easiest way out?"

"You're calling swimming through a vortex of black blood to get home easy?"

"Most straightforward," he amends with a roll of his eyes.

Conceding the point, you head for the staircase leading back to the entrance hall. "Let's try it," you say, ignoring the nagging feeling in your stomach that things won't be so simple.

You notice Soul looking at the angel in the hall as you pass the fountain. "I thought she was wearing white before," he says puzzledly.

"She was," you answer. "She siphons out the black blood if you put your scythe in her hands, there's another statue upstairs I used for yours."

"Handy."

"A bit," you answer as you reach the door leading to the grey room. Or rather, the wall where the door had previously been.

You blink. "Where's the door?"

"This is bullshit." Soul steps forward, tapping the scythe against where the door had been. The wall resounds soundly, no sign that any room lies behind it. "It was _right_ here."

"I _know_ ," you say, frustrated. "I just left the room an hour ago."

Soul stares up into the shadowy spires rising high above you. "Have you noticed there's no windows here?"

"We're not stuck here," you say firmly at the implication in his voice. "It's a painting, not a prison."

Your eyes widen and you repeat your words slowly, "It's a painting…"

"You've said that."

"I know that!" You prod him in the shoulder. "If all we've been seeing are the art pieces from the museum, then what else should be here?"

Soul's eyes light up as he catches where you're heading. "The Ordered World-"

"If we're really trapped in it, then it should lead back to the real world," you finish excitedly.

"It could work," he agrees slowly. "Assuming we don't get killed by one of the museum pieces first."

"Your positivity is truly inspiring," you say with an eye roll, patting his head. Your fingers stick together with something viscous and you cringe, catching the overpowering scent of coconut on your glove. "How much hair gel do you use?"

You catch the reddening of his face as you head for the staircases. "That's not important."

"I _knew_ something about your hair wasn't natural."

"Come _on_."

* * *

"I am going to die from all this exercise before we find this crummy painting," Soul groans. "My feet are killing me."

"There is no way I revived you to die that pathetically," you reply, unlocking a door and being promptly greeted by a loud roar. You wrinkle your nose and step back. "Your turn."

"This has got to be the hundredth monster we've killed today," he complains, entering the room and eyeing the mummy emerging from the sarcophagus statue. "My arms are getting sore."

"I wouldn't overexaggerate," you answer as you follow him into the room, dancing around the tendrils of the mummy's bandages trying to trip you up.

"Okay, ninety-nine."

With you baiting the mummy and drawing its attention away from Soul, it doesn't take long for him to sink his scythe into the belly of the monster. He yanks the blade out with a grunt and makes a face. "Why does the blood smell like piano oil?"

You shake your foot free of a bandage. "That's weird, it smells like overexposed film to me."

"I'm ready to go home," he grumbles. "And we're having no luck up here. Can we try going down than up this time?"

"There's a lot of rooms we haven't tried yet."

Soul raises an eyebrow. "There's about a million rooms we haven't searched yet and that's just on this floor alone."

"Fair enough," you sigh.

As you descend into the basement, a chill radiates off the walls and bites into your bones. You rub your arms to warm yourself up, glancing at Soul. "You know, for someone who insisted that they don't play the piano, your scythe's form is pretty interesting."

He rolls his eyes but the tips of his ears burn red. "Your point?"

"Can you play on that as well?"

"I haven't had the chance to find out, with being almost killed and trying to find a way out of here."

"You do now," you suggest.

"Not happening," he says. "Anyways, you already heard me play."

"Not the whole song," you counter. "How about after we make it out of here?"

He sighs. "Maybe."

"I'll hold you to it."

"Good luck with that," he says as the stairs end, a pair of giant aged stone doors standing in front of you.

He reads aloud the name carved into the doors. "Nidhogg. That's fitting."

Your breath comes out in foggy puffs. "You know the myth?"

"My great-grandma was from Norway," he says. "She liked to tell us about Nidhogg to get me and my brother to go to bed without complaining."

You smile but don't move to unlock the door. There's a vague sense of dread that pricks at the back of your neck the longer you stand here and is echoed in the frantic beating of your scythe's soul; you get the nagging feeling that something is watching you, waiting for you-exactly how you felt before being attacked by Jack the Ripper.

"Maka?" Soul looks at you questioningly. "You okay?"

"Yeah," you lie, pulling the key from your pocket. "I think that the creepiness of this place is just getting to me."

Still, you can't quite shake the thought that you are making a mistake, a rush of lukewarm steam blowing past you as you open the doors and walk inside. Your heart lurches when you peer around and see two giant bulging eyeballs glaring pointedly at you.

Soul grunts as you back onto his foot, grabbing your hand to keep you from falling. "What is it?"

You point at the eyes. "That!"

His hand tightens around yours as he follows your gaze and then relaxes. "It's okay." He squeezes your fingers. "It's part of the machine, see?"

As the air clears, you notice the piping wrapped around the eyes and then the huge metal pipe fixing the eyes in place. "Oh." You let go of Soul and swallow your embarrassment. "Sorry."

"It looked like a monster to me at first too." He steps forward, squinting into the lingering steam. "What's a factory doing down here?"

The extensive maze of metal tubes and machinery sprouting up from the ground and up the walls resembles a mess of spiderwebs; the creaking groans of moving gears and shrill shrieks from overheating pipes creates a clanging cacophony that does little to settle your nerves.

"I don't know," you reply. "But the sooner we should start searching, the faster we can move on from here."

Soul gives you a concerned look. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"I already answered that." You start wending your way around the pipes. "I'm fine."

There's a pause and then the sound of Soul catching up to you. "Okay."

You're almost across the room to where the factory branches off when the doors close with a sudden slam, shutting you in semi-darkness.

"Soul?" You've barely began to reach out when his hand closes around yours.

"Right here," he says, close enough you can feel the warmth radiating from his body. "How did that happen?"

"I don't know, I left the doors wide op-"

The rest of your sentence is broken off by the screeching of several pipes peeling themselves away from the wall to shoot straight towards you.

You tumble back, taking Soul with you, and just barely dodge being impaled by the pipes.

"Everyone has doubts," a gruff voice from above you says. "What are yours?"

You look up and blink to make sure you're not hallucinating the bodiless head peeping down at you from the top of one of the tubes.

Yellowed teeth are bared at you in a fierce grin amid a lumpy expanse of grey skin tinged with a deathly pallor. "Right now I am doubting my ability to smash a couple of bugs."

Narrowing your eyes, you open your mouth and step forward, hand lacing tight around your scythe, but Soul stops you.

"We're just looking for a way out," he says. "That's all."

"A way out?" The lenses covering the head's eyes gleam. "I can show you the way out."

You exchange a look with Soul and you know you're both thinking the same thing. "What sort of way out?" you ask.

"I know you're looking for the painting," the head replies, straw-like hair swinging back and forth as it bounces up and down impatiently. "Follow me." And without a further word, the head sinks down, seemingly melting into the pipe.

Soul starts to speak, "Wai-"

"This way!" The head pops out of a tube at the end of the room before fading away into the wall.

"What do you think?" Soul asks after the head has completely disappeared again.

You glance at the doors behind you, now hidden behind a tangle of pipes. "I guess we don't really have a choice. Let's just stick together and see what happens."

There is no sign of the head as you follow where it disappeared; in fact, the entire factory is completely desolate-there are no any paintings or statues to be seen or even any of the monstrous art works come life. And although the air is filled with the sounds of machinery, a strange silence cocoons around you and presses against your ears, dulling your senses.

Your heart thuds in time with your scythe's soul, amplifying your sense of dread the further you move away from the entrance and nurses the growing feeling knotting at the crown of your head that there is something very wrong.

" _There is something wrong with you."_

You pause in rubbing the ache out of your temples, head perking up. "What did you say?"

Soul turns. "Huh? I didn't say anything."

You stare up at the hissing pipes above your head-the steam issuing from them coils and contorts into the shape of a figure that prods teasingly at your memory.

"What's going on?"

Starting, you shake your head, words still reverberating in your ears-they refuse to leave your mind. "I think it's all this noise playing tricks on me," you lie, beginning to walk again. "Let's keep moving."

Soul is one step behind you. "We can hack our way out if you want."

"Not until we finishing searching the whole factory." You fall into silence as you look while the discord from the machinery rises to a peak.

The needles digging into your head intensify into a sharp point; you bite back your groan-the only thing louder than your pain is the voice that worms its way in your mind, scraping down your spine with jagged words.

" _..._ t _h_ e _r_ e _'s_

t _e_ r _r_ o _r_

t _h_ a _t_ c _a_ n _'t_ s _e_ e _n..."_

You force yourself to straighten and veer around, throwing out an arm. "You had to have heard that!" Your head whips back and forth. "Where is it coming from?"

Soul crashes into you with a muffled grunt. "What are you talking about? What's wrong?"

You push past him, running blindly. "There's something else here." Your hands are tingling from the force of your soul battering violently in your scythe. "It's hiding in the steam but I can feel it," you call as you race around a corner. "I can fe-"

The clown standing in front of you brushes a fingernail down your face. " _I **am** the terror that can be seen."_

Your muscles are tensed and your scythe is raised but you don't move, you can't move.

It crouches down, breath tickling against your cheek, and extends a hand. " _ **I** am the madness that lives in your head."_

There's an intoxicating aura, as magnetic as Abyss of Madness' pull, surrounding the clown that sings to your blood, that calls to your soul, that causes your hand to lift and-

The ear-splitting scream from the steam pouring out from the ruptured pipes overhead engulfs the clown and shatters your trance.

From out of nowhere, Soul seizes your hand and pulls you away, brandishing his scythe and cutting open more pipes. "Come on!"

You jerk your hand away. "No." Without the clown's hypnotic gaze, your head clears and you're able to think semi-lucidly; your grip around your scythe tautens and you wait, narrowing your eyes. "We can't run away from this."

The steam dissipates with an unnatural quickness-the clown is still standing where you found it, entirely unaffected. It's a hybrid of oversized limbs and a torso of pipes gnarled together; its left eye is a crescent that leers at you while the circle of its right eye watches you fixedly, a grin splitting across its face.

A beat passes: neither the clown, you or Soul moves.

" _Come play with me."_ The clown's voice is soft and oily, a strange lilt to its words. It plucks its nose, a small red ball, from its face with a pop, a new nose springing up to take its place. It starts to juggle, grin still in place, ball multiplying impossibly in its hands. It lashes out with surprising speed. " _Play with me."_

Using your scythe, you launch yourself out of the balls' path. As you land on your feet, you hear Soul call out for you but your answer is cut off by a sharp thwack to your back. You get a glimpse of the whirlwind of red balls ricocheting back to you before you're swept up in the storm.

You deflect with your scythe as best as you can but there's a fear pitted at the bottom of your stomach that increases every time you're struck, fumbling your aim and slowing your steps. In a stroke of sheer luck, you manage to send a ball back to the clown, pegging it straight in the face.

Its head snaps back and the unrelenting barrage around you ceases abruptly.

There's the sound of footsteps as Soul runs up to you. He has a bloody nose and a purpling bruise on the side of his neck. "You okay?"

"Yeah." As the clown rights itself, you think you catch a flash of green winking at you from its eyes but it's gone as quickly as you see it; a crack splinters down from its right eye as if it was made of porcelain. Its smile widens before it lunges forward and forces the two of you apart, its arm slamming into Soul and sending him crashing into a tube.

"Soul!" Spinning on your heel, you pull your scythe back as you dart forward, funneling your momentum into your swing into the clown's body. But where you should have felt metal slicing into flesh, you feel the scythe reverberate almost painfully in your hands.

" _You can't hurt me."_ More pieces of the clown's face crumbles away. " _Do you know why?"_

Gritting your teeth, you pitch the scythe's blade into the clown's forehead. It bows forward and you back up warily.

Then, it raises its head and your face grins back at you. "Let me show you your truth."

Your scythe slides from your hands. "What?"

The clown stretches her arms wide. "I will set you free."

You're tugged forward by an invisible bond, eyes wide, limbs locked, voice frozen in your throat. Pipes break free from the ground and bloom around the two of you.

"Maka!"  You manage to turn your head and lock eyes with Soul, who is stumbling to his feet.

And just before his face is swallowed up by the pipes, you finally realize the truth as the clown wraps her arms around you: the clown is not like the Abyss, it _is_ the Abyss.

The clown put her hands on your face and your vision dims, dims, dims until everything goes black.

"Maka?"

You open your eyes and look up. "Yes, Papa?"

"Up you go," he says, helping you to your feet. He smiles at you. "That was a hard fall, I can't believe you didn't cry."

You giggle. "I wanna be strong like you and Mama so I won't cry!"

He swings your hand as you walk. "What do you want to do now?"

"Hmmm." You think for a moment. "I want a story."

"Once upon a time, there was a princess named Maka," your papa begins. "And she worked hard everyday to be strong for her kingdom. She lived in a castle with her mama and papa, who she loved very much. But one day, a dragon invaded the kingdom and kidnapped her mother. Maka couldn't protect her. She was too weak."

You frown. "Papa, I don't like this story anymore."

He swings your hand faster. "And she said she was angry with her papa but really she was mad at herself-"

You try to tug your hand free. "I don't like the story-"

He continues, "Because she was too weak-"

You tug harder. "I don't like it, Papa-"

"And when the dragon came back for the rest of them-"

"Papa-"

"They all died-"

"PAPA, STOP!"

" _BECAUSE SHE WAS TOO WEAK-"_

**" _STOP!"_**

Ink black blood runs down from your papa's eyes, he crumbles forward and you scream. " _Papa!"_

Your papa is too heavy to turn so you pull on his shoulder. "Papa, please wake up!"

"He's not going to wake up." Another you, but so much older, bends down next to you. One eye is the same crescent as the clown and the other normal; both look at you scornfully. "You saw what you did. You killed him."

"But I didn't mean it," you sob, covering your mouth. "I want my papa back. Bring him back!"

"It's too late for that." The older you starts to cough blood. "It's too late for anything." The blood dribbles onto her hands as she hunches over. "You lost everyone because you are weak and you couldn't do anything to save anybody. Not even yourself."

She slumps on her side and you're left alone.

_I_ t _'s_

_s_ o

_q_ u _i_ e _t_

a _n_ d

_y_ o _u_

c _a_ n _n_ o _t_

b _r_ e _a_ k

t _h_ e

_s_ i _l_ e _n_ c _e._

"You're right." Your tears slow, a smile pulling at the corners of your mouth. " _You're right."_ You look up and now it's your hands that are covered in the blood. " _This is me."_

A song, cheery and boisterous, pushes you to your feet, empties your mind and replaces your thoughts with its beat. You feel the edges of your new face creeping over and rise in time with the tune, falling into the song and out of yourself.

_"_ T _h_ i _s i_ s

_m_ **y** _t_ **r** _u_ **t** _h_

t _h_ i _s i_ s

_m_ **e** _."_

The threads of your being go snipsnipsnip and you're unknown.

Unreal.

Undone.

It's too loud for you to hear the change in your heart's rhythm but you feel your heart following the pulse of the tiny melody picking through the cracks of the clown's song, beating an intense, _hopeful_ refrain into your blood.

"Please don't give up on me now, Maka.

Don't leave me."

You open your eyes.

"I was hoping I would reach you." Soul stands in front of you, a black piano beside him. He holds out a hand and you take it, rising; he brings his other hand to the changed side of your face and then looks to you. "Sit with me?"

You allow him to guide you to the chair and rest your hand lightly on the keys. Just underneath the surface, the same madness thrums within the piano. Turning your head, you look at him and he nods.

"That is why I don't play," he says, touching a key. "But you know now."

"Are you going to play for me?" you ask.

You can feel the shake of his head in his words. "It's your turn now."

Swallowing nervously, you gather your hands together in your lap. "But I don't know how to play the piano."

"That doesn't matter." He pauses. "What do you think is power?"

You think, fingers moving restlessly across the keyboard. "Courage."

"Show me," he says. He lays his hand on yours, touch featherlight. "Play your courage."

Skimming across the keys, you stop at the one that is warm on your skin. Hesitating, your finger hovers over it for a moment before you press down.

The soft ping that comes from the piano is clear and resonant, not separate of you but part of you. Even as the sound fades away, you feel the note build inside of you, showering the world in a blazing light.

A hand grips your shoulder. "Maka?"

You look up. Soul stares anxiously at you, the pipes that entrapped you lie in a mangled mess and the clown is nowhere to be seen.

You ask in a hoarse whisper, "What did you think?"

At the sound of your voice, some of the worry vanishes from his face. "G suits you." He looks at your hand, still pressing down on key of his scythe's blade. "Rather, you suit it."

"Good." You smile faintly. "Soul?"

"What is it?"

"I think-" you stifle a yawn, "I think I'm gonna sleep for a minute."

Your vision blurs and you see ground rushing forward to welcome you before everything fades to black.


	7. Harbinger

**Harbinger (n:** **a person or creature who goes ahead and makes known the approach of another; anything that foreshadows a future event.)**

* * *

Soft white light draws you out of the darkness.

You lick your lips and inhale, feeling icy air fill your lungs. As you exhale, you open your eyes to find yourself staring at the grey ceiling of an infirmary you cleared earlier; something shifts at the end of your bed and you tense, eyes snapping over.

"You're awake." Soul peers down at you, eyes filled with unfiltered relief. "How are you feeling?"

Pushing yourself up, you rub your head carefully, which aches with a dull throbbing pain. "I'm better than I was."

It's the most you can say without lying; the number the clown did has left a fracture in your mind that's only held together by the thread from the note you played-you don't care to examine how deeply that fracture runs through.

You speak to avoid thinking. "How did we get here?

Soul looks almost offended. "Is there anyone else around who could have carried you?"

The small smile his answer prompts from you makes you feel almost normal. It fades as you pull on a stray string on the hem of your glove: they're not even a day old and they're already ripped and fraying.

You wonder briefly how you'll explain that to your father and your thoughts take an unpleasant turn to twisted fairy tales and broken words. Tucking your hands underneath the blanket, you look up. "And the clown is-"

"Gone." Soul scratches his head. "Literally. By the time I reached you, the clown had disappeared and you were-"

"Losing my shit."

He has the grace not to comment on the angry tears in your voice. "Yeah."

You're quiet as you think. "Was the music real?"

In response, he picks up his scythe and plays a few notes. "If you wanted me to play that badly, you could have said so. There was no need to almost die."

Your smile returns. "I'll remember that."

"Good." He bends down and straightens, handing you your scythe. "I went downstairs and healed it while you were sleeping." He hesitates before speaking again, "I didn't want to leave but it was drenched in black blood."

"Probably a good thing that you did." The scythe feels different in your hands, as if the material it was made of has changed. "Thanks for not abandoning me."

"That would make me a pretty shitty person, wouldn't it?" He laughs. "The battles inside your head are the hardest. No one wins."

You snort, gazing at your scythe for another moment before standing, which earns you a protest from Soul.

He frowns disapprovingly. "I think you should rest for a while longer."

"I'm okay to walk around," you insist, heading for the door.

The skepticism remains in Soul's voice as he follows you. "If you're sure."

"I'm positive," you say as you walk out the door and are immediately barreled back into Soul's arms. A pair of black eyes framed by pink choppy hair stare at you fearfully before the person scrambles away from you and down the corridor.

"Wait!" You push yourself up with your scythe, easily catching up to them and veering in front of them. "Hi-"

The tip of a black sword pauses inches in front of your nose. " _Leave me alone!"_

From behind the stranger, Soul stops, scythe raised.

Waving him down, you say, "It's okay." You look back at the stranger and summon a smile. "My name is Maka, what's your name?"

They're silent for so long you don't think they're going to answer. And then, "...Crona."

"It's nice to meet you, Crona," you say, swaying to one side so you can see their face but the sword follows your movements. "Neither of us are going to hurt you," you say soothingly. "We're not from here either."

The sword lowers enough so they can look you in the eye. "You're not from here?"

You shake your head. "Soul and I are both from the museum. We've been looking for a way out for a while now but it hasn't been easy," you answer. "How long have you been here?"

They shuffle from side to side. "A while."

"It's not fun being alone," you say, extending a hand. "Would you like to join us?"

Crona tosses a look behind them to Soul and wavers, fear and anxiety mixed with something you can't quite discern in their face. Then, they lower their sword completely and take your hand. "Okay."

Soul joins you as you shake their hand. "Hey."

Crona bobs their head in greeting.

You're finally able to get a good look at Crona: they look no older than you, their skin a ghostly white and they have a look of chronic malnourishment about them. Their long, slightly medieval-looking black robe swallows them up, casting a gloom over them.

The broadsword they hold in their hand is pure black save for the white stripe down the middle.

You clear your throat. "Before we get going, do you think we should heal your sword?"

They flinch as if you had hit them. "Heal?"

As gently as possible, you say, "It's nothing to be scared about but if your sword stays contaminated with black blood, it won't be good."

"But it's always been like this," Crona says, the permanent furrow in their brow deepening. "Is that bad?"

You exchange a look with Soul before looking back to Crona and saying hastily, "No, no, as long as your soul is healthy, then it's fine."

"Soul?" they repeat. They flip over their sword. "Is this it?"

The red lips near the head of the sword look poised to scream.

Staring blankly at the lips, you look up, burying your alarm under bright cheeriness. "Well, you don't even have a scythe like we do so I guess it just works differently!"

"That's not bad either, right?"

"Nah, just take good care of your weapon, okay?" Soul says. "It's important."

Crona nods, still looking unconvinced.

"All right." You pause. "Where are we searching next?"

"It might be best if we stay upstairs," Soul suggests. "We're closer to the angel statues that way."

"True," you accede. "But we barely scratched the surface downstairs." You don't think it's a wise idea to mention the clown in front of Crona. "Although there are spots we might want to avoid."

"I know the underground really well," they pipe up. "Just tell me where you want to avoid and we can search down there."

You glance at them. "Really?"

"Yeah, I made a map," they say, tapping their temple. "It's inside my head."

"I guess that settles it then," you say after a moment. You give Crona an encouraging smile. "It's a good thing we have you."

Their voice is less shaky and they straighten at your words. "Really?"

You nod. "Let's go."

* * *

The spiraling staircase Crona leads you to delves further into the ground than the one that led to the Nidhogg factory.

You scrutinize the paintings hanging on the walls as you pass them but none are the Ordered World. Instead the paintings are a series of portraits of a black-haired man covered in scarves; they start out normally enough at the top of the stairs but with every bend in the staircase, the man's expression becomes more and more deranged until they no longer resemble a man but something you'd only recognize in your nightmares.

It's unsettling to you, especially the blood red eye splitting the middle of his forehead. You say to Soul, "Creepy, isn't it?"

You look at him when he doesn't answer you, catching a flash of grinning teeth and unfocused eyes in the dim light. "Soul?"

There's a tiny chime from his scythe but still no answer.

"Soul?" You touch his shoulder.

"What?" He sounds groggy, like he had just woken up from a long sleep. "You say something?"

Lowering your voice, you ask, "Are you feeling okay?"

"Yeah, I just zoned out for a minute there." He rubs the bridge of his nose, shaking his head and sounding more like himself. "Being stuck in this darkness is giving me a headache."

"We're here," Crona calls from ahead of the two of you.

The eye engraved in the door in front of you stares right through you, stretching from the ceiling and floor. You're reminded of the door leading to the factory but there is no sense of doom overwhelming you here.

You start to pull the skeleton key from your pocket but Crona doesn't move aside, pushing open the door easily. Puzzled, you say, "That's the only door I've ever came across that was unlocked."

"Everything's always been unlocked for me," they say as they enter.

The aura of madness cascades down on you like an avalanche as you walk into a dank dungeon, the burning smell of melted film stinging in your nose and throat. Unlike your experience with the clown, the madness here is silent and heavy, like you're being dragged down underwater. But also unlike the clown, it doesn't try to pry its way into your mind and that makes breathing in the madness bearable.

Crona moves about without any trouble at all, seemingly unaffected. They point to the flesh-colored bag hanging in the middle of the room. "The way to the rest of the floor is behind here."

Your eyes widen at the sight of the bag, pulsating occasionally with the movements of the prisoner lying within; waves of madness undulate from the bag, hitting you with more force the closer you step to it.

"How was the First Kishin able to cross over?" you wonder aloud. There's something about its presence here that strikes you as more than just strange. "Even in its painting, it was trapped."

The nervous waver in Crona's voice returns. "My mother put all her energy into this painting, maybe that's why."

"Your mother?" You look at Crona in surprise. "Your mother is Medusa Gorgon?"

Their hands rotate their sword with an anxious air. "Was."

"Oh, I'm sorry," you say, trailing off. "Is she the reason you were at the museum today?"

"One of them," they mumble, squirming. "My mother always wanted him free," they say. "Painted them free," they correct themself hurriedly. "Before she died, she told me she thought I could do better than she had."

"And do you want to be an artist?" you ask.

"I don't know," they say, looking down. "I'm not really sure of anything."

"No one's ever sure about anything," you offer. "What's important is to not let that stop you from going after what you want to make others happy."

For the first time since you met, Crona gives you a small smile. "Thank you."

"We should get moving," you say, suddenly realizing that Soul has been unnaturally quiet. You turn to find him standing behind you, staring transfixed at the First Kishin. He holds tight to his scythe like he's using it for support, face covered in sweat.

You grab his hand. "Soul, what's wrong?"

He doesn't answer but his fingers clasp around yours.

Slinging his arm around your shoulder, as you guide Soul to the door Crona mentioned, you tell them, "Carry his scythe for him."

It's slow going, moving around the First Kishin to reach the door-Soul is doing little more than dragging his feet across the ground, which means you're doing the bulk of the work.

You nudge the door open with a huff and manage to get Soul inside the corridor before lying him down as carefully as you can manage. Reaching out a hand, you watch his face for any movement as you ask Crona, "Can I see his scythe?"

When they don't hand you his scythe, you look up. "Crona?"

They rip their gaze from where they were examining the scythe's soul, jumping and recoiling slightly. "Sorry."

"It's okay." You take the scythe and look at the soul: it glows red, clear of any black blood.

Your relief only lasts for a moment; you study Soul worriedly: you can heal scythes and wounds but you can't heal minds. Bending down, you murmur, "Can you hear me, you albino porcupine?"

At the sound of your voice, his eyes flutter open. "What did you call me?"

You laugh. "Is that what it takes to wake you up?"

"I am fueled by sarcasm and painfully accurate insults."

"I couldn't tell," you say, leaning back and rising. "Can you stand?"

He responds by pushing himself up onto shaky feet, leaning slightly on his scythe. When you offer your shoulder, he shakes his head and you feel a tiny pang at the wall descending in his eyes as he pulls away. "I can manage."

You speak after a pause, looking at Crona. "Where to now?"

They point down the corridor. "This way."

As you peek into room to room, you sneak peeks at Soul-he seems determined to keep pace with you and Crona, face set in an unreadable expression.

The search of the last level proves fruitless and Crona takes you to a staircase that leads you to the next floor. You start with the left half of the corridor, finding nothing.

Crona asks as you pull a door closed, "What does this painting we're searching for look like again?"

You frown. "You saw it before you came here, right?"

They fumble with the hem of their robe. "My memory is kind of a blur before finding you."

You give them a sympathetic look. "It's a large painting of a castle, there's a big skull on it so it shouldn't be hard to miss."

"Got it!" Nodding eagerly, they open the last door and back away.

"What's wrong?" You peer into the room warily and find it stuffed with pink rabbit dolls. On the far wall is a giant portrait of one of the rabbits. While their red eyes stare at you uncomfortably, this room is by far the least intimidating place here.

"This is kinda cute," you say as you step into the room.

"Cute?" echoes Soul, following you inside. His expressions turns from neutral to repulsed. He kicks aside a rabbit in his path. "There's nothing cute about this."

"Don't be so mean," you chide, straightening the doll. "They're not scary, at least."

Soul doesn't follow you further into the room. "If you think so."

"No painting here," you say from the other end of the room, disappointed.

As you exit the rabbit room, Crona leads you back toward the staircase.

From behind you, Soul calls, "There's a bend around here. We should search over there before moving on."

"I've already looked over there, it just leads to a dead end," Crona calls back as you pass the staircase. "We should go this way."

"It couldn't hurt to check one more time," Soul answers, heading away from the two of you.

Crona's fingers fiddle against the handle of their sword. "I told you already, there's nothing over there."

You turn to stop Soul. "Hang on-"

Your words are cut off by an explosion of noise and rubble.


	8. Gibil

**Gibil** **(n: an untranslatable, Russian word, meaning not quite death or suicide but simply ceasing to exist; deteriorating in a way that is painful to others.)**

* * *

Your ears ring shrilly as you sit up with a grunt from where you were flung on the ground. You turn your head to see Crona already on their feet and then to the wall of crumbling stone in front of you and right where Soul had been.

You scramble up, grabbing your scythe. "Soul!"

There's an awful pocket of silence that locks your heart in a vice before you hear the shuffle of footsteps behind the wall and then, "I'm here!"

Breathing out a sigh of relief, you ask, "Are you hurt?"

"No." His voice is muffled behind the wall. "I just got knocked over. You?"

"We're okay," you reply. You pause, eyeing the stone before testing it with your scythe. "But I don't think we're going to be able to move this without causing another rockslide."

"I think I know a way to get to Soul." Crona's voice interrupts, timorous and nearly inaudible. "There's a tunnel system upstairs," they say, tugging at a strand of their hair. "But it only opens one way so we'd have to be the ones to open it."

"Seeing as I am not a fan of being crushed to death, I'm for it," Soul says.

"All right," you say. "We'll be back soon."

There's a nervous edge to Soul's laugh. "I'll be waiting."

Crona takes you back through the dungeon holding the First Kishin; there's a strange vibration underneath your feet as you head up the stairs for the other floor, growing in intensity the higher you climb.

You stop Crona when you two reach the landing, vibrations so strong the paintings on the walls rattle. "Hang on."

"What's going on?" they fret. "Is the building collapsing again?"

"No." You peer around the corner and immediately spot the source of the shaking and most likely the rockslide from earlier: a stone golem that's at least twenty feet tall lumbers up the corridor, the chainsaw in its overlarge hands dragging across the floor with a grating screech.

Pulling back, you let out a breath. Nothing you've came across here was nearly that large and save for the clown, nothing has looked that formidable either.

"Maka, what's wrong?"

"Yeah! Just figuring out a good way to ambush this thing," you say, looking at Crona. "Don't worry, I can handle this, I'll keep you safe."

"If it's just a statue, I can take care of it," they say indifferently, lifting their sword and walking out to meet the golem.

You scramble after them. "Crona, don-"

Your words die in your throat at the sight of their sword; the lips embedded in it are opening wide, tongue smacking against the metal before issuing a scream that forces you to stop in your tracks and clap your hands over your ears.

But even through your hands, the scream rubs your soul raw and you can barely keep your eyes open as Crona walks up to the golem, stuck fast in place, and brings down their sword in a single slash.

The upper half of the golem crumbles into pieces, the sword ceasing to scream as Crona turns back to you. "All done."

You lower your hands, unable to find your voice.

"Maka?" they ask, worry re-entering their eyes. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No!" You clear your throat. "I'm just amazed you did that."

"I wasn't sure if I would win or not," they admit, rubbing the back of their neck. "But then I remembered what you said."

You're still not sure what to think about what you just saw but their words touch you. "I'm glad they helped."

They look down at the ground. "When we get out of here, is it okay if we're friends?"

You smile, beginning to walk down the corridor. "Of course."

* * *

Waiting, like many things, such as making phone calls or living, is easier in theory.

The first few minutes after Maka's footsteps fade away are fine, the ones after that are bearable and now you are currently contemplating whether risking death by rockslide is preferable to sitting here and doing nothing.

Thankfully, you glance behind yourself before you make your decision, the alternative of exploring where Crona was bent on you not searching much more appealing in your situation.

Your hand clenches reflexively around your scythe as you pass the demon room. Exactly what Maka found cute about a room full of red ogres with too sharp teeth and horns sprouting out of their heads is beyond you.

Unless what you saw was not actually what was there.

Immediately, you dismiss the thought before it can firmly hook itself in your mind, gritting your teeth. The thoughts and feelings arising from being trapped here are nothing different than what you experience everyday; you're used to the madness being inside your head, the nightmares pulling at the stray threads of the fabric of your mind, the insecurity blossoming from the doubt whose whispers keep you up until the moon is setting.

But now the madness is leaking out to the real world, now your ability to tell what's real and what's not is becoming increasingly unraveled. And you know that was why you succumbed so easily when you were ambushed.

You open the first door around the bend in the corridor, peeking inside and finding it empty. As you pull the door closed, a rumbling from somewhere above shakes the door in its hinges. Your thoughts turn to Maka, a knot of worry rooting itself in your chest.

Your relief at her being here with you is more than a little selfish. At first, you had been horrified to wake up and find the girl who had heard you playing the piano peering down at you. When her hand had reached out for yours, you almost didn't take it, unwilling to have a witness in your downward spiral into insanity. But you had seen something in her eyes that echoed your music and that had changed your mind-at least you would have someone to remind you that something here was real.

What you hadn't expected was falling into sync with her quick temper and headstrong determination; it had made you forget what it had felt like to be alone and you wonder if maybe that's why you can't shake the fear clinging to your skin.

The rest of the rooms you search yield nothing and it's with no expectations that you open the last door; like the other rooms, it's empty, a bed on one side and a bookshelf on the other. But unlike the other rooms, a portrait hangs on the wall; you step closer and examine the blonde woman in the black robe staring at you from the painting.

Her golden eyes are like lasers, mouth smiling down at you in a smirk that is just a bit too knowing for a painting. There's an awkward empty space next to her and her arm is stretched out, as if she is holding onto someone.

You shift your eyes elsewhere-the sign in the frame is covered in dust. Wiping the plaque clean, you read the words etched on it:

_Mother and Child: Medusa and Crona Gorgon._

Your eyes trail back up to the space next to Medusa. "Shit."

Panic sealing your throat, you shoot out of the room and run without watching where you're going-all you know is you need to find Maka now.

The door comes up too quickly for you to stop and you crash into it with a thud, stumbling back and barely keeping your balance. Grimacing, you look up, sure you're hallucinating the staircase peeking through a window in the door.

But the stairs don't disappear when you press your face to the window. You swing back your scythe and drive the blade into the door, gasping when it bounces back and almost tumbles out of your hands.

Pacing back and forth, you aim an angry kick at the door. Wincing in pain, you glare at it, gaze falling to the lock and then to the row of rooms behind you. It's a long shot to think, much less hope, that the key is in one of those rooms but you're already halfway down the corridor-you're not about to wait around and do nothing.

You rip the rooms apart, upending the beds and yanking out the drawers, but no key falls out of their hiding place.

Chest heaving, you come to a stop in front of the demon room. Your hand wraps around the handle but you don't move.

Then, swallowing hard, you open the door.

No demons ambush you as you step inside, making sure to leave the door wide open. Your eyes dart warily from side to side, footsteps echoing off the walls as you walk forward. You catch the delighted leer of the demon staring at you from its painting with its fanged teeth glinting greedily, _oddly realistic_ in the light.

You almost wish it would move or speak because then at least the dread roiling in your veins would be gone but the demon just watches you as you watch it and the nightmares living in your bones stir restlessly for a new companion.

Inhaling deeply, you force yourself to look away and begin to comb the room, picking through the maze of dolls on the floor.

You nearly jump a foot in the air when you feel something nudge the back of your ankle. "What the fuck?"

The little demon doll sitting in the middle of the path grins up at you, arms raised as if they're reaching out for you. There's no way in hell you're going to touch the abomination so you use the end of your scythe to slide it as far away from you as possible.

You go back to searching, so lost in focus that when you hear the soft squeak, you nearly topple backward.

The doll has returned and nearly sits on your shoe this time, arms still outstretched for you.

You scowl. "Stay the fuck away from me." With a swing of your scythe, you bat the doll away, sending it sailing into the air and across the room.

Resuming your hunt, you root around the dolls. It's not until you circle the same patch of dolls for the fourth time that you realize the end of the room is no closer to you than it was when you first entered.

You're attempting to tamp down your panic when the door to outside slams shut.

"No!" You start towards the door, stepping onto something soft. From underneath your shoe, the doll smiles happily at you.

"You asshole," you growl. It's not rational to accuse a doll the size of a cat of closing a door but you do it anyways. "Did you do this?"

The doll only continues to smile at you.

The feeling of stabbing the doll in the face is not as satisfying as you expected, tinged by the nagging thought that you have just done something very wrong.

Frustrated, you turn back around.

The onyx eyes of the demon painting bore into yours. " _Would you like to know a secret?"_

If you close your eyes, you can't see it and if you can't see it, then it doesn't exist and you can't be pulled in, you _won't_ be pulled in.

" _What you're looking for is here."_ The demon's voice is raspy and sticks to your eardrums. " _You want to find her, don't you?"_

Your eyes snap open. "Where?"

The demon's teeth are bared in a gleeful snarl. " _Right in the belly of the beast."_

You blink. "What?"

From across the room, the demon grins at you from its painting, completely motionless.

A new voice, saccharine and smooth, speaks. " _What a lovely fly in my web."_

_tick_ _tock_

The sound of a clock from nowhere fills you with dread; repeating the demon's words to yourself, you look at the dolls, grip tightening around your scythe.

_tick_ _tock_ _tick_ _tock_

You take a vicious pleasure in ripping the demons' stomachs open; the first three dolls yield nothing but you strike gold with the fourth doll.

Your book for beginner pianists peeks through the doll's stuffing. From the book comes the soft plinking of "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star." You hear the missed note at the end before the song finishes.

" _Soul, I told you to sound it out."_

" _Dad, he needs the bo-"_

" _Wes, he needs to grow up. You were already leagues ahead when you were his age."_

You hurl the book to the ground.

_tick_ _tock_ _tick_ _tock_ _ticktockticktockticktock_ _ticktockticktockticktock_ _ticktockticktockticktock_

The next demon you open up gifts you with your rejection letter from Juilliard's pre-college division; the ink on the page reshapes and reforms:

_Dear Mr. Evans,_

_It is my regret to inform you that you were not accepted into our preparatory program. Sadly, **you are** not quite talented enough, **not** quite dedicated enough, not **quite** good enough, not quite **enough.**_

_ticktockticktockticktockticktockticktockticktockticktockticktockticktockticktockticktockticktockticktock_ _ticktockticktockticktock_ _ticktockticktockticktock_ _ticktockticktocktick_

Your hands are shaking so badly that you can't even read your own name as you pick up your medication bottle from the next demon.

" _How's the medicine working for you these days, Soul?"_

" _I don't even notice it."_

" _Good, good. No more attacks?"_

" _Nope."_

" _Sleeping all right?"_

" _Yes."_

" _Thinking about starting music again?"_

" _Soul? Did you hear me?"_

" _Sorry, doctor. No, I don't think I'm quite there yet."_

_TICK **TOCK** TICK **TOCK** TICK **TOCK** TICK **TOCK** TICK **TOCK** TICK **TOCK** TICK **TOCK** TICK **TOCK**_ _TICK **TOCK** TICK **TOCK** TICK **TOCK** TICK **TOCK** TICK **TOCK** TICK **TOCK** TICK **TOCK**_

The bottle slips from your hands and the demon's breath grazes the back of your neck, webs stringing you up like a puppet.

Time's run out.

But then again, there never was escaping yourself.

* * *

The tunnels are cramped, damp and dark, more a glorified series of holes than an actual tunnel system and are so small you have to crawl through them. As you shimmy around a particularly tight corner, you call to Crona, "How much further?"

"We're almost to the end," they call back. You think you see their hand pointing ahead to somewhere. "Just a bit further."

You nearly crash into them when they abruptly come to a stop and press against a stone panel that swings into one of the rooms you searched earlier; you scramble out and spring to your feet, stretching out your aching muscles before striding for the door and opening it in one fluid movement. "Soul?"

The corridor is empty.

You frown, sensing a tension in the air that makes your chest tight.

"I don't like this." Crona comes to a stop beside you, shoulders hunched and face scrunched in worry. "I don't want to be here."

"Once we find Soul, we'll get out of here," you answer. "Come on."

It's only based on a guess and a feeling but when the door to the rabbit room doesn't open, you know you were right in coming here first.

Your scythe's blade sticks in the door, as if it was made of glue instead of wood. Gnashing your teeth, you wrench it out with a grunt and swing again and again.

As the hole in the door widens, you hear Crona gasp. "Oh no, no no no _no_."

"What is it?" you ask as you kick away the remnants of the door, unable to see anything but the rabbit dolls.

You push inside to find Soul below the painting of the rabbit, staring blankly above him. Intaking sharply, you drop your scythe as you run in.

"I'm sorry," comes Crona's agitated voice from the doorway. "I'm going, I can't deal with this."

You reach Soul and kneel beside him, seizing his hand. His face doesn't register your touch, remaining vacant, and his skin is icy as if the warmth of his soul was snuffed out a long time ago, eyes staring up at the ceiling like he's drowning.

It feels like you're looking at a corpse than a person.

Your hands clench at the thought, heart thudding in your chest as you look around for his scythe and find it strewn among the rabbit dolls, its red glow as strong as ever.

Fighting the panic clawing in your throat, you look at Soul, hand hovering from his face while the other curls into a fist. A concussion doesn't seem like the best way to fix Soul but you don't know what else you can do.

You raise your fist, his name paused on your lips.

* * *

What will you do?

**[Touch Soul's face and call out to him?]**

**[Maka chop him?]**

If you choose to touch and call out to Soul, go to the chapter titled Desiderium.

If you choose to Maka chop Soul, go to the chapter titled Eripio.


	9. Desiderium

**Desiderium (n: an ardent longing for something or someone you lost; a yearning grief. Desiderium comes from the Latin verb** _**dēsīderāre** _ **, meaning "to long for; require.")**

* * *

You can't find it in you to add to his suffering.

"Soul." Your fist unclenches and you grab his shoulder, shaking him roughly. "Wake up." You press your palm to his face and drag his head downward but still his eyes stare through you to that spot on the ceiling, wooden and empty. "Soul!"

His body swings back and forth listlessly with your movements, his limbs stiff and heavy.

There is no rise and fall of his chest; a waxy sheen covering his skin strips him of what made him Soul and the light in his eyes are gone and you can feel that all you're shaking is an empty husk but you won't give up, you _can't_ give up.

You shake him until your arms are cramping.

Dropping your arms, you bow inward and stare down at the flood, pretending you don't feel the stinging in your eyes. "Please, Soul."

" _He's gone and you're alone."_

"You're wrong," you tell the clown, whose voice resounds deafeningly in your mind. "He's here," you insist, unshed tears blurring your vision. "He's here."

"Soul." Your voice is trembling and you can't get enough air in your lungs even though you're nearly hyperventilating. "Soul, look at me."

He's gone.

"Please," you whisper. "Look at me."

And you're alone.

"Why?" Your arms wrap around yourself. "Why?"

" _Your weakness is that although you're not happy drowning, you refuse to let go of the anchor pulling you down."_

"That's not true."

" _So you've failed again."_

"No, no." You rub hard at your eyes. "I didn't, _I didn't."_

" _Your father would disagree."_

"Shut up."

" _Your mother even more."_

"SHUT UP-"

" _And you aren't strong enough to change a single thing so down, down you go, straight into the abyss."_

"No-"

" _How is it again that_ _ **everyone**_ _leaves you?"_

You slam down your hands. " _NO!"_

"Maka, I'm only going to be gone for a few days," your mother scolds from across the table. "There's no need to be angry."

You clasp your hands repentantly. "Sorry, Mama."

"Or maybe a month," she murmurs, staring dreamily at the ceiling. She blinks and looks down at her plane schedule. "We'll see, photography is a hard business to make it in and I refuse to let your father pay for anything."

You mouth the words instead of actually saying them. "What about if I come with you?"

"Hmm?" Your mother glances at you, frowning. "Maka, you know I've always taught you there's no room for weakness, you need to have a strong voice."

"Sorry, Mama." You straighten your back. "I'll be good until you come back."

She leans across the table and pats your hand, one corner of her mouth lifting in a smile. "I know you will."

"And I'm going to miss you," you say as she turns her attention back to the papers sitting in front of her.

"I'll miss you too." She gives your wrist another pat, oblivious to the fact that you're flipping your hand to hold hers.

So you hold in your tears when she leaves the next day and you keep them locked away as you wait as a few days turn into weeks and wait as weeks turn into months _and wait_ as months turn into years.

And every night before you go to bed, the same thought passes through your mind as you fall asleep: you could have left with her but you didn't speak. _You were too weak._

You're roused from your sleep one night by a familiar hand.

"Mama!" You lean into her hand-her face is hidden in the shadows but the warm scent of her perfume envelops you in a hug. "I've missed you!"

"My Maka," she says, stroking your hair like she used to when you were little. "I missed you too." Her fingers travel down the back of your head. "So why is it that you never came for me?"

You frown, confused. "But you were supposed to get me." You try to raise your head but her gentle touch turns steely, locking you in place. "Mama?"

"I told you that you had to be strong in this world," she says, pulling your hair sharply. "I told you had to be a fighter to get what you wanted."

"I was," you gasp as she laces her fingers around your neck.

"You weren't." Her hand tightens around your neck. "And why would I come back for a daughter who was neither?"

"But I am-"

" _You aren't,"_ she hisses in your ear.

" _You_

_were_

_too_

**_w e a k."_ **

You sob into the floor of the doll room; the merry tune of the clown's song spins around you, slowly enclosing you but like before, like now, you're too weak to do anything. Your nails dig in your head. "I'm sorry, _I'm sorry!_ "

The clown breathes a new mask across your face. " _Let me free you."_

You want to fight but you can't.

You won't.

" _Let me show you your truth."_

The tears come to a stop.

And so do you.

* * *

**Bad End: Maka All Alone**


	10. Eripio

**Eripio (v: to rip, snatch away, to escape. Latin from** _ **ex**_ **, "out of; from" +** _ **rapiō**_ **, "grab; seize.")**

* * *

You open your mouth to speak as you stare at Soul, gloved fingertips brushing against his cheek. Then, with an audible click, you shut it, spring to your feet and throw off the hopelessness settling on you, narrowing your eyes. Your fist connects with the top of his head and sends him tumbling to the ground. "Who the hell told you it was okay to give up?"

He lies facedown on the ground without moving and you lower your hand, mouth running dry.

With a muffled groan, Soul raises his head, appearing dazed. It takes him a moment to find you but when he does, there's no doubt in your mind that he's looking at you.

You let out a tiny sigh before reaching out a hand. "Hey. What are you doing down there?"

"Oh," he says, taking your hand. "Right, sorry."

He doesn't let go of your hand after he rises, gaze traveling across your face before meeting your eyes. Something silent and intangible passes between you, like the mingling of breaths on a frigid day.

Then, he grimaces and the moment passes.

"What is it?"

"I don't know." His frown deepens and he steps back. "I feel like there's something I'm forgetting."

"Was it important?"

"I'm not sure," he says, running a hand through his hair. "It was something I wanted to tell you, I think."

"If it's important, it'll come back to you and you can tell me then," you say, letting go of his hand and retrieving your scythes. You hold out his, noticing the worried crease between his eyebrows. "Either way, I'm sure it's fine."

He looks like he's about to speak but instead, he nods and gives his head a shake. "Do you mind if we leave? I don't like being here."

"Neither do I," you reply, glancing around the room. Maybe it's because you found Soul here but the rabbit dolls almost look malevolent to you now, like they're waiting to pounce on you. "Let's go."

As you leave the doll room, Soul asks, "Where's Crona?"

"I-" You look up and down the corridor. "They didn't want to come in so I thought they would just they would just wait outside."

"They couldn't have gotten far," he reasons. "There's kinda nowhere to go."

"Unless they went back in the tunnels, then they could be anywhere." You bite your lip, worry knotting in your chest. "I don't think they're okay being on their own."

"We'll find them," he says, catching your eye. "Even if we have to search this whole damn building again."

Nodding, you push your worries to one side. "This way."

You arrive at the tunnels to find the door firmly shut.

"No!" You kick the stone, earning you nothing but toes throbbing with pain. "It was open, I know I left it open."

"Well, it's not now," Soul says as he bends down to examine the wall. "Looks like it only opens inward."

"That is what Crona said," you reply, heart settling somewhere in your stomach. "Now what?"

"We keep looking for another way out," he says, straightening. "Or is this you giving up?"

You scowl and make a face at him. "Of course not."

He grins. "That's what I thought."

"There was a part here that we didn't explore," you say as you re-enter the corridor. "We should try that first."

The bend Soul pointed out earlier connects to another corridor but instead of dead-ending like Crona claimed, what's left of a door lies in pieces along with pieces of the wall, the beginnings of a staircase peeking out from behind the rubble.

Exclaiming out loud, you start to break out into a run.

"Hang on!" Soul seizes your arm, making you lurch to a halt.

"What's wrong?" You glance at him and catch him screwing up his face with the same expression he had in the doll room. "Do you need to rest?"

"No, I don't know, I don't-I don't _remember_ ," he pauses and rubs his head before continuing, "What happened before the doll room is hazy, it feels like there's holes in my memory and no matter how hard I try, I can't remember anything." He blows out a breath. "But I _know_ there's something I wanted to say to you and it just feels like I'm running out of time to say it."

"Well, I'm not planning on going anywhere," you say, nudging his elbow with yours. "So I would say you have plenty of time."

The anxiousness in his eyes doesn't fade but he nudges you back, breathing in deeply and nodding.

As you walk through the wreckage, you recognize Crona's handiwork. Excitedly, you say, "Crona has been through here."

"How do you know that?"

"The lips on their sword screams," you say, gesturing to the crumpled pieces of metal "And does stuff like this."

"All that damage from a scream?" he asks, eyeing the chaos. "That is disturbing."

You hesitate as you pick through the scattered debris. "Maybe a bit but I trust Crona. They're careful about using it."

He makes an unintelligible noise that you take for agreement.

The staircases seems to stretch infinitely and just as you feel a stitch developing in your side after ten minutes of climbing stairs, they abruptly end and you knock your head into the ceiling.

From beside you, Soul asks, "Does it just stop here?"

Massaging the sore spot on your head, you squint in the darkness. "I guess so." You frown. "But if Crona came through here, then there has to be a way out." Reaching out tentatively, you push against the ceiling, feeling it shift ever so slightly under your fingers.

You push harder. "Soul, help me!"

Together, you manage to lift up the stone, which opens up into the black and white tiled entry hall. The angel fountain gurgles quietly in the background as you climb out of the staircase, looking around for any sign of where Crona may have ran off.

"Maka!"

"Crona?" You whirl around to see them emerging from one of the hallways branching off the hall; they drag their sword instead of carrying it and it makes a scraping sound against the floor.

You breathe out a sigh of relief and begin to walk towards them. "There you are, I was worried about you."

"Sorry," they start, "I was-"

Soul lunges in front of you. "Wait!"

You jump, alarmed. "What are you doing?"

"There's a reason Crona has a sword instead of a scythe." He looks at them and then back at you. "They were never with us in the museum."

"They're a painting."


	11. Allegiant

**Allegiant (adj: Defined as loyal and faithful, allegiant is derivative from the word alliance, which has connotations of devotion. An allegiant being may arouse from a platonic bond or romantic bond, nevertheless, dependability is a present quality.)**

* * *

"A painting?" you repeat. Then you shake your head firmly. "No, that's impossible."

Soul steps back. "When do you ever remember seeing them?"

"I-" Your words pause on your tongue and you feel your insides run cold as you think and think and don't find a satisfactory answer to give him. "It can't be true," you say finally.

"It's not." You look up at Crona. "Is it?"

They're frozen in place; their face is petrified into a mask of dismay, hand still halfway reaching out to you.

Your mouth runs dry. "Is it?"

Their grip on their sword tightens at the sound of your voice. "I only wanted to be human," they whisper.

Your breath catches in your throat. "Crona-"

They hunch over, chest heaving. "I only wanted to be human!" they scream.

You only catch a glimpse of their sword whipping across the floor before a powerful tremor knocks you off your feet; you feel Soul's body against yours as he wrap his arms around you before you both fly back into the floor with a thud.

Your impact into the ground is cushioned by Soul. Shaking off your dizziness, you roll off him and sit up. "Are you okay?"

He nods as he sits up, holding his head. Raising it, he starts, "Are you ok-?" He breaks off, eyes widening.

You follow his gaze to where he's looking, hands becoming clammy when you see Crona with your scythe in their hand. You stand up quietly. "Crona."

They look up at you, their face split by a smile just too wide to be normal. "This is mine now."

"If I don't have that, then bad things will start to happen to me," you say, easing closer to them. "I thought we were friends, right?"

A wave of uncertainty sweeps across their face for a moment; they look down at the scythe and then back to you before slamming the snaith into the ground, sending a rush of pain throughout your head. "No, I want to be real! I want to be happy too!"

You wheeze, doubling over and fighting against the darkness tugging you towards unconsciousness.

"Hey, stop!' There's the sound of running footsteps and then you feel Soul looping your arm around your shoulder, propping you up. He looks at you, eyes wide and terrified. "Maka?"

"I'm fine," you say, cringing as the worst of the pain in your head rises to a crescendo before finally receding into a throbbing ache in your temples. "I have to talk to Crona, find a way to help th-"

"Maka, we can't help them," Soul interrupts. "It's not like I like it either," he adds, catching your glower, "But there is no way to change their existence. The best thing we can do right now is get your scythe back before they can do any more damage to it and get out of here."

You chew on your retort, waiting for his words to stop making sense and sighing heavily when they don't. "I know."

He shifts his grip on his scythe and loosens his hold on your waist. "Are you okay to walk?"

Your world is hanging on a tilted axis and it feels like there is a hole in your chest that is about to implode but you suck in a breath and force yourself to move forward. "Let's go."

There is an eerie tension bleeding into the air as the two of you head down the corridor that Crona ran down; none of the paintings hanging on the walls move now-black blood drips down from their frames and in a ghastly rasp, they whisper, " _Thiswaythiswaythisway."_

Soul's arm brushes against yours. "How are they doing this?"

"Maybe their emotions have some effect on this place."

"I don't like it," he says. "You're not feeling any worse, are you?"

Shaking your head, you say, "Crona's confused and scared but they only acted the way they did on an impulse."

You don't have to look at Soul to see his disagreement but instead of arguing with you, he simply says, "They're not going to give back your scythe."

You're not willing to acknowledge the truth of his words so you say, "I don't think they want to hurt anyone."

"You don't have to want to hurt someone to hurt them."

An image of your father flashes in your mind. "I know."

The whispering paintings take you to a wide and spiraling stairway. You crane your head and peer upward, seeing a dim light winking from the very top. Exchanging a look with Soul, you wend your fingers between his before starting to climb the stairs.

When you reach the top, you find that the light you saw is coming from a half-closed door; from the room within, you can hear Crona speaking, words jumbled and frantic.

" _IknowthisblackmybloodmybloodIknowIknowIknowTHISMUCHIKNOWMYBLOODISBLACK."_

Your chest tightens in sympathy for Crona. As well as with just the slightest twinge of fear. You swallow hard. "Maybe I should go in alone to talk to them."

"No way." Soul's voice is adamant. "We stick together."

You mask your relief by simply nodding.

Crona's back is to you so they don't see you when you enter the room; you try to make your voice as gentle as possible. "Crona?"

They jump and whirl around, clutching your scythe to their chest and waving their sword at you. "I told you this was mine! You can't take it away from me!"

"I-"

"That's not why we're here," Soul interrupts, pulling away from you.

"Don't lie to me!" Crona backs away. "Go away!"

"I'm not lying," he says. "I want to trade. You can have my scythe if you give Maka hers back."

"No!" You push forward, glaring at him. "Absolutely not."

"No one's forcing me to do this," he answers without meeting your eyes. "And besides, it's not for you to choose."

"Why would I want your scythe?" Crona says suddenly. They tilt their head to one side and eye Soul warily. "What's so special about it?"

"For one, it's not as boring." He taps out a few notes on the piano blade. "And secondly, you wouldn't be considering my offer if Maka's scythe worked," he says, taking a step closer to them. "You don't feel real, do you?"

Crona stiffens; they edge towards Soul. "And how will I know if yours works?"

"You can't find out if we don't trade," he says, holding out his scythe. "I thought you wanted to be human."

Their eyes widen and then they snatch his scythe out of his hands, tossing your scythe to the floor.

Soul moves quickly, grabbing your scythe and holding out to you.

You don't take it.

He finally looks at you for the first time since he stepped forward to talk to Crona. "I told you they weren't going to give it back willingly."

"That doesn't mean you had to give up your scythe," you whisper furiously, passing a glance to Crona, who is plinking out notes on the scythe; they sound empty and out of tune. "Nothing's changed."

"You're safe," he answers. "That's what changed."

"This is useless!" Crona hurls the scythe to the floor. "I don't feel anything!" they cry. "Why doesn't it play right?"

Soul opens his mouth just as they bring down their sword on the scythe's soul.

"It's broken," Crona says, staring at the shattered glass. "Broken things don't belong in the world."

Horror twists in your gut at the sight of the tiny soul slowly sliding apart, split in two; its red glow clings on desperately for a moment before flickering out.

You run to the scythe and drop to your knees to pick up the soul; you cradle the pieces in the palm of your hand, feeling its warmth dissipating. Panicking, you do the first thing that springs to mind, sticking the pieces in your jacket pocket.

Crona gives a loud gasp. "I've never seen red blood before."

You twist around to see Soul frozen in place, your scythe clattering out of his hands; he wears a slightly shocked expression like he had asked a question and has just been given an unexpected answer.

The gentle pattering of the blood dripping from underneath his jacket is too loud in your ears. Soul touches the hem of his shirt, drenched in scarlet, before crumpling forward.

A scream meant to be his name rips from your throat as you leap to your feet and run to him, hands shaking so badly you're barely able to turn him over and lift his shirt; you give a small moan at the cut splitting across his chest from his shoulder to his hip.

The slight rise and fall of his chest and weak thrumming of his pulse in his wrist are the only things that keep you from tipping over the edge.

"I'm keeping the scythe though." There's the scrape of metal as Crona picks up Soul's scythe and runs out of the room. "It's still mine!"

You nearly scramble to your feet before looking at Soul. If you go after Crona, there might be a chance you can save Soul's scythe but if you leave, then there's a chance Soul will bleed out before you return.

* * *

What will you do?

**[Stay with Soul?]**

**[Go after Crona?]**

If you choose to stay with Soul, go to the chapter titled Euphony.

If you choose to go after Crona, go to the chapter titled Temerate.


	12. Temerate

**Temerate: (v: to break a bond or promise, from Latin** _**temerō** _ **, "I violate, defile, pollute, contaminate.")**

* * *

You deliberate for another moment before bending down, whispering in Soul's ear, "I'll be back, I promise."

Straightening, you check the soul in your pocket before going after Crona. As you descend the stairs, you notice all of the paintings have fallen silent and have been stained in black blood, mouths open in a voiceless scream.

You don't allow yourself to be slowed by pity but instead quicken your pace, following the trail of dead paintings.

A cold terror wraps around you as you're led to the stairs leading to the First Kishin. Unlike the other paintings, the series of paintings depicting the Kishin's descent into madness are not covered in black blood nor does its occupant scream in silence.

They're empty.

You're stepping off the last stair as Crona's voice echoes through the doorway.

" _And now_

_i t begins_

_a world_

_w here_

_n o t h i n g_

_line s_

_up."_

You sneak to the edge of the door and peek inside, feeling your mouth run dry.

Crona hums loudly as they swipe one handedly at the chains holding the First Kishin captive; in their other hand, they drag Soul's scythe by the blade.

Within in the bag, the Kishin moves restlessly, muffled shrieks scratching at your eardrums.

You're rooted in place by the waves of fear bleeding from the rips in the Kishin's bag; you scream at your legs to move and will your arms to work but fear does not need to ask for entrance like the madness did, freezing you from the inside out.

Crona laughs as the last chain holding the bag breaks and the Kishin falls to the ground, setting off a quake so large and violent the entire building sways on its foundation.

You manage to clap a hand over your mouth as you fall back with a groan. Forcing yourself to stand, you peer back in the room.

Teetering in time with the building, Crona watches the skeleton-like figure rising up in front of them; the Kishin rolls the bag up like it's wrapping up scarves but it's only when it starts draping it on itself that you make a realization.

The bag is its skin.

Crona pushes their face into the Kishin's. " _Do you know where hell is?"_ They tap their forehead. " _It's inside your head."_

The Kishin gives a shrill screech and pulls back its skin like a rubber band and flicks it at Crona's head, sending them flying into the wall.

They snicker as they sit up easily, licking the blood running down from their nose. " _Did you know? My blood is_ _ **black**_ _."_

With a roar, the Kishin barrels through the wall; you can feel through the building's shaking as it travels upward to a different level.

You steel yourself to move before pausing-there is something odd about the world, something too smooth and oily for its texture. Touching the wall, you look at your glove, seeing the flecks of paint sticking to the fabric. Then, you glance upward to watch the curls of paint falling lazily from the ceiling.

The world is coming apart.

Heart hammering in your chest, you look at Crona, still sitting on the ground-the scythe fell out of their hands when the Kishin struck them and lies ten feet in front of them.

You weigh your chances: if you move fast enough, you can grab the scythe before Crona rises, but if you don't, the scythe is as good as gone and Soul is dead.

* * *

What will you do?

**[Try to talk to Crona?]**

**[Try to take the scythe from Crona?]**

If you choose to try to take the scythe from Crona, go to the chapter titled Pyrrhic.

If you choose to talk to Crona, go to the chapter titled Duende.


	13. Pyrrhic

**Pyrrhic: (adj: defined as a type of success marked by the sign of multiple heavy losses, a Pyrrhic victory weighs greater than any achievement due to the difficulties one endured. Although you have met your triumph, it is difficult to obtain a sense of accomplishment.)**

* * *

It's a long shot but you have to take it.

You fling yourself forward and when you're within reach of Crona, you drive your scythe forward without looking, feeling the blade hit home.

Your fingers brush against Soul's scythe before being ripped away from your grasp.

"You said you would be my friend."

Crona stands in front of you with the scythe in their hand, inky blood dripping from where you sliced them in the shoulder. "Trusting someone not to hurt you," they whisper, body trembling uncontrollably. "How idiotic is that?"

You know from experience that there are no words that can erase betrayal but you still try anyways. "Crona-"

They pitch their sword at you.

" _L **e** a **v** e m **e** **ALONE!** "  
_

You duck your head, hearing the whistle of the blade as the sword flies over you, and look up in time to see Crona disappearing through the other exit before shooting after them.

Instead of running away from the cave-in, they run towards it; you sprint after them with renewed energy, feeling a tiny ray of hope spring in your chest.

Crona breezes through the rocks like they're not there.

A shocked cry tumbles from your mouth but you don't allow yourself to stop, catching a glimpse of the rocks swaying back and forth, papery and two-dimensional.

There's no time to think but that doesn't stop you from feeling the dangerous wobbling of the stairs as you run up them, insubstantial and translucent, like you're running on a trampoline on the verge of breaking.

You swipe your scythe at the floor when you reach the top and it rips away as easily as canvas; there is a trail of black blood dotting the white tiles of the entry hall-you follow them at full speed, ignoring the furious burning in your lungs.

The blood takes you higher into the building than you have searched before, ending at a door marked with a skull.

You burst in, ready to face Crona, only to find the room completely empty.

Glancing around warily, you walk forward. It's by far one of the strangest rooms you've seen here: gates shaped like guillotines stretch into what appears to be a desert, filled with crosses sticking from the ground like cacti. Above you is a sky so blue it hurts your eyes, white clouds swirling lazily within it.

And in the middle of the room, perched on a platform, rests _An Ordered World._

Gasping, you almost trip over your feet as you scramble toward the painting. Instead of looking at a grinning sun and the skull lining the castle, you see the inside of Patchwork Museum, spotting the _Resonance of the Souls_ sculpture as well as the red hair of your father.

Your heart twists at the sight and you raise a hand, fingers hovering centimeters from the painting: up close, it has a mirror-like quality to it and you can swear feel the painting breathing on your fingertips.

"Maka."

You twist around to see Soul walking toward you, scythe in hand and looking completely healthy. "Soul?"

He grins. "Surprised?"

Finding your voice, you choke out, "A little."

"Crona had a change of heart," he says. "Healed my scythe and returned it."

Finally getting your legs to work, you move toward him, deciding to save your questions for later. "The world's falling apart."

"I saw," he answers, taking your hand. "That's why we have to get out of here."

You pull back, gesturing to the painting behind you. "But this is the exit."

"It's not." Soul tugs on your hand impatiently. "We were wrong."

"It's our only chance so it's still worth checking," you insist. There's something weirdly off and stiff about the way Soul walks, like someone is puppeteering his body.

"Forget _it_ , Maka."

"Soul wouldn't take me somewhere he knows is dangerous." Wrenching your arm away, you stare at the cheery glow of his soul before taking out the pieces of his real soul from your pocket, forgotten until now. "You're not Soul."

You catch not-Soul's face curl into a snarl before spinning around, running up the platform and hurling yourself into the painting; you close your eyes and hold onto the pieces of Soul's soul, whispering a wish to them as the world turns dark.

* * *

The white light of the gallery and the buzz of people talking is almost too much for you to believe; the world is harsh on your eyes, your hands clenched tightly to your chest.

You breathe out and open them. "Soul?"

Your hands are empty.

Swallowing, you try to contain your panic as you pace around the museum, the colors of the museum too bright and the noise of passerby too loud as you search in vain.

When you spot the familiar head of blond hair in the crowd, you call out eagerly. "Hey!"

Wes turns. "Yes?"

You fidget with your hands. "I was wondering if you knew where your brother was?"

"Brother?" he repeats. "I'm sorry, miss, but you have me confused with someone else. I don't have a brother."

Your heart plummets to the floor. "Oh."

"Are you having trouble finding someone?" he asks, looking concerned.

"No, no." You back away, struggling to keep your voice steady. "Thank you."

You walk without seeing, trying to think but your mind spins in circles and you would have walked until your legs gave out if it wasn't for a hand suddenly pulling at yours.

"Maka, come on," Crona says, leading you out to the lobby. "We're going now."

Your father's voice comes from behind you. "Oh good, you found her, Crona." He pats them on the shoulder. "Who's ready for some Italian food?"

You gape at your father. "Papa, get away from them!"

"Maka, that's not a nice way to talk about your friend," he says sternly. "Come on, you two."

Crona links their arm with yours as you leave the museum and throw a desperate look towards the galleries.

Outside, they give you a wide smile. "Remember you said we'd be friends forever?"

* * *

**Bad End 2: Together Forever**


	14. Duende

**Duende (adj: the mysterious power a work of art has to move a person.)**

* * *

Despite everything, you're not going to betray their friendship. You walk into the room, heart hammering. "Crona."

They jump to their feet and snatch up the scythe. "I told you this was mine!" They wave their sword at you. Go away!"

"I just want to talk," you say soothingly, placing your scythe on the floor. "See?"

For a moment, they waver and then they lower their sword. "You can talk from there."

"That's fine." You pause. "You've been here for a while, haven't you?"

"Ever since I opened my eyes." The scythe rattles in their hands. "It's just been me and _her._ "

"You mean Medusa?"

"Why did she create me if she was just going to hate me?" they scream, building rumbling violently with their words. "I didn't ask for this, I didn't ask to exist!"

The ache that stabs at your heart is not just for Crona. "So that's why you crossed over."

"I just didn't want to be stuck with her anymore," they say, chest heaving. "I thought it would be better." They run a hand through their hair and tug hard. "But it was worse because I was alone!"

"Was it you that brought us in?"

"That wasn't me." They blink rapidly, shaking their head. "I would have brought the whole world in, if I could do that."

"When I found you, I felt hope," they whisper, hands dropping to their sides. "That I could leave." Their voice rises. "But it didn't work, I can't be human!"

"That must be frustrating," you say, stepping closer to them. "It's not fair."

"It's not, it's _notnotnotnotnot_."

"But Soul and I don't belong here." You take another step. "And Soul's hurt, we have to go back to our world."

"You can't leave!" they yell. "Then I'll be alone again!"

Crona slumps to the floor on their knees, holding the scythe to their chest. "I just wanted to be real."

You look up at the ceiling, watching the paint rain down in bigger chunks now, before you touch the pocket holding the pieces of Soul's soul. "I'm sorry."

Clearing your throat, you ask, "What if I stay?"

"What?"

"I'll stay with you," you say. "If you help me get Soul home."

"Really?" They clamber to their feet. "You mean that?" Their face lights up. "You promise?"

Cupping your hand gently around the pieces, you nod.

"I promise."

* * *

You sweep your hair in a ponytail as you roam around the museum and wait for your ex-wife to show up, hoping it's still her favorite hairstyle on you. You're nearly positive she chose to meet here just so you would run into Stein but you don't mind: the fact she even reached out to you makes you happy.

When you've circled the first floor twice, you pause at a painting and glance at your watch. You're early by fifteen minutes but you had hoped your ex-wife would have been early too.

You glance up at the painting and do a double take.

Both the girl and child sitting next to her at the table wear huge smiles as a grinning red ogre serves them tea, a giant spider weaving her web busily above them.

But there is something wrong about the girl's pitch black eyes-they're too real, too _familiar._

_Tea Time with Friends by Lord Death_ reads the sign. Repressing a shudder, you lean back and catch a head of white hair out of the corner of your eye.

The boy in the red and yellow jacket stares at the painting the same way you did, eyes screwed up in concentration. His mouth is half-open as if poised to call out.

You look from the painting and back to him again-his eyes are fixated on the girl's face. As if he recognizes her.

As if he remembers her.

His gaze suddenly snaps to you. "What are you looking at, old man?"

You shoot back an indignant reply and mutter about delinquent hooligans, grateful you never had a daughter to have this kind of thing to worry about.

The boy ignores your insults and stomps away.

Gritting your teeth, you take one last look at the painting before going to search for your ex-wife again; something you hadn't seen before catches your eye and you examine the painting more closely, immediately regretting the decision.

It's silly to be this bothered, you think to yourself, as something in your chest twinges painfully.

You force yourself to take a deep breath and tell yourself to be more reasonable. It's nothing more than an eccentric creative decision on Lord Death's part. And it's used (as your ex-wife would say) rather tastefully, dripping in soft puddles beneath the girl's coat.

But as you walk away from the painting just a touch too fast, you think that any color but black would have been a better choice for the girl's blood.

Firmly, you push the image to the back of your mind until the painting of the girl is only the ghost of a shiver on your back.

* * *

**Bad End 3: Trapped in the Madness**


	15. Euphony

**Euphony (n:** **the beauty of sound. Described as a pleasing effect to the ear,** _ **euphony**_ **is usually detected as the symphony, delicacy, and elegance of the succession of words.)**

* * *

Your hand tightens around Soul's. "We stick together."

You shed your coat and tear it into pieces, wrapping them around his wound until the blood flowing from the wound finally starts to slow.

Leaning back, you reach for the remnants of your coat and take out the pieces of Soul's soul, pulling your scythe towards you. You're not quite sure what you're thinking or expecting as you drop the pieces onto the glass holding your soul in place.

The pieces fall through the surface like it's water, settling next to your soul. They sink to the bottom, dull and grey, while your soul seems to glow even brighter.

Its light flows from your soul to the pieces and tiny shoots of red light wink into existence within the halves, spilling out and linking them together. A jagged scar seals the soul into one again, splitting diagonally down the soul like Soul's cut.

And now, instead of one pulse, you feel a second pulse beating underneath your fingers, filling in the pauses in the first rhythm leaves.

You look at Soul and pull his hand on your lap, feeling his pulse carefully. It seems stronger to you and he appears to be breathing more easily, no sign of fresh blood seeping from his bandages.

His fingers flutter against your palm.

Starting, you look up to see Soul's eyes opening as he tries to sit up and throw out an arm at him. "Don't move!"

Soul blinks blearily at you and lies back down, wincing. "No one told me getting stabbed would be this awkward."

You laugh shakily at the sound of his voice. "Awkward?"

"I hate being the center of attention."

You smile, unable to speak because the sudden tightness in your chest.

He squeezes your hand. "So now what?"

Swallowing, you say, "We need to get your scythe back." You pause. "Or maybe it should just be me."

"I'm coming too," Soul says flatly.

You frown as you help him sit up. "And what if your injury opens up again?"

"I'll make sure not to bleed on you," he replies. "Help me stand?"

He leans on your shoulder heavily as he rises, wobbling dangerously but managing to keep his balance. "See? Easy."

You snort, picking up your scythe and looping your arm around his waist. "Let's go then, Quicksilver."

Walking is like swimming through quicksand; you're tensed as you descend the stairs, ready to break Soul's fall if necessary.

His voice startles you. "Do you hear that?"

"What?" You listen, hearing nothing. "I don't hear anything."

"Exactly," he says. "Look."

You glance at the painting he's pointing to and feel your stomach lurch. All of the paintings have been bathed in black blood, mouths open in a silent scream.

"Well," you finally say. "I guess we know where they went."

Soul doesn't answer but he gives your shoulder a squeeze.

You follow the trail of dead paintings slowly; Soul doesn't seem to tire, rather his soul seems to find a steady rhythm the longer you walk. A cold terror wraps around you when the paintings lead you to the stairs to the First Kishin.

Unlike the other paintings, the series of paintings depicting the Kishin's descent into madness are not covered in black blood nor does its occupant scream in silence.

They're empty.

Crona's laugh echoes through the doorway as you step off the last stair.

You glue yourself to the wall by the doorway, feeling Soul's head above yours as you peek inside the room.

Crona hums loudly as they swipe one handedly at the last chain holding the First Kishin with both their sword and Soul's scythe, muffled screams and fear spilling out of the holes they've torn in the bag. Unlike madness, fear does not need to ask for permission to enter you, freezing you from the inside out.

"What do we do?" Soul whispers.

You snap out of your trance. "If I move now mayb-"

The last link holding the chain in place breaks and the Kishin falls to the ground; a quake rips through the entire building, making it sway on its foundation.

You manage to keep from rocking back into Soul-his hand on your shoulder balances you and you right yourself, peering back in the room.

Crona watches the skeleton-like figure rising up in front of them; the Kishin rolls the bag up like it's wrapping up scarves but it's only when it starts draping it on itself that you realize what the bag is made of.

The bag is the Kishin's skin.

Crona pushes their face into the Kishin's. " _Do you know where hell is?"_ They tap their forehead. " _It's inside your head."_

The Kishin gives a shrill screech, pulling back its skin like a rubber band, before flicking it at Crona's head and sending them flying into the wall.

They snicker as they sit up easily, licking the blood running down from their nose. " _Did you know? My blood is_ _ **black**_ _."_

With a roar, the Kishin barrels through the wall; you can feel through the building's shaking as it travels upward to a different level.

Soul nudges you. "Look."

His scythe lies on the ground in the rubble of Crona's impact with the wall.

"What do you think?"

"Hang on," you say, squinting around yourself. There is something odd about the world to you, something too smooth and oily. Touching the wall, you look at your glove and see the tiny flecks of paint sticking to the fabric. You glance upward to watch the curls of paint falling lazily from the ceiling.

"The world is coming apart."

"What?"

"We can't risk Crona making the world collapse," you say, turning to look at Soul. "We have to talk to them."

He looks back at you for a moment before nodding. "I trust you."

Your heart hammers loudly in your chest as you walk into the room. "Crona."

They jump to their feet, snatching up the scythe. "I told you this was mine, that means you can't have it!" They wave their sword at you. "Go away!"

"We just want to talk," you say soothingly, placing your scythe on the floor.

"Well, I don't!"

"That's fine, I can do the talking." You pause. "It seems you've been here a while," you say. "I'm sure you had to have had a good reason to cross over to a place like this."

"It wasn't hard to choose." The scythe rattles in their hands. "Ever since I opened my eyes, it's just been me and _her._ "

"You mean Medusa?" you guess.

"Why did she create me if she was just going to hate me?" they scream. The building rumbles violently with their words. "I didn't ask for this, I didn't ask to exist!"

The ache that stabs at your heart is not just for Crona.

"I just didn't want to be stuck with her anymore," they continue, chest heaving. "I thought it would be better." They run a hand through their hair and tug hard. "But it was worse because I was alone!"

You ask, "Was it you that brought us in?"

They blink rapidly, shaking their head. "I would have brought the whole world in, if I could do that."

"When I found you, I felt hope for the first time," they whisper, hands dropping to their sides. "That I could leave." Their voice rises. "But it didn't work, I can't be human!"

"That must be frustrating," you say, stepping closer to them. "And it's not fair but Soul and I don't belong here." You take another step. "And Soul's hurt so we have to go back to our world now."

"I knew it," they yell. "You don't care about me, you don't care one bit, you just want me to disappear!" They jab a finger at you. "Well, I'm done making others happy instead of me!"

They pitch their sword at you.

" _ **L** e **a** v **e** m **e** **alone!** "_

You duck your head, hearing the whistle of the blade as the sword flies into the wall behind you, looking up in time to see Crona disappearing through the other exit.

Soul glances at you. "Now what?"

"Come on!"

It's not easy for Soul to go faster than a stumbling half-jog, much less a run, and by the time you reach the door, Crona's already gone but it's easy for you to see where they went.

The rocks of the cave-in sway back and forth, papery and two-dimensional. There's no time to think but that doesn't stop you from feeling the insubstantiality of the stone nor keep you from seeing the growing translucence of the walls.

You're about to barrel up the stairs when Soul stops you "Look."

A small puddle of black blood pools at the entrance of one of the rooms. Between your heart pounding in your ears, you hear a soft whimpering from behind the door.

Steeling yourself, you swing open the door.

Crona sits hunched over underneath a painting of a blonde woman staring out haughtily with a cold and unimpressed expression. They rest their head on their knees, fingers laced tight around the scythe.

They don't move as you approach them nor when you call out their name.

You try again. "Crona."

" _Why am I still here?"_ They don't lift their head but their hands clench. " _Why do I stay if I'm like this?"_

You lower your scythe. "It's not your fault for being made this way."

"If you were like me, you would never be like this." They look up at you. "Just let me disappear."

You hand the scythe to Soul. "No."

"The world is better off without me."

"I don't believe that," you say.

"Why?" they ask in a trembling voice. "What do you believe?"

"That you're human to me," you say simply. "That you're real to me." You bend down and take their hand. "And that you matter to me."

"But I've messed up so much." The tears brimming in their eyes begin to spill over and they shake their head vigorously. "Too much."

"It's never too much until you're not here to change," you say, squeezing their hand. "And you're still here."

A convulsion through the building knocks you backwards; you throw out your arm to catch yourself and feel your hand go through the floor-the sensation in your fingers dissolves as your hand dangles in nothingness, as if you're being erased.

Soul pulls you to your feet, handing you back your scythe. "Are you okay?"

You can only nod-it's hard for you to breathe, as if your lungs are made of drying paint. The floor is like a rope about to snap and the world itself is fraying at the seams like ruined canvas. You find your voice. "We don't have much longer before everything is gone."

'But it's enough time." Crona is on their feet, looking just as surprised as you are for speaking up. They fidget with Soul's scythe before stretching it out to him wordlessly.

Soul hesitates before stepping forward to take it.

Crona bobs their head at him and then lays their hand on the wall behind them. "This is the way you need to go." The stone vanishes underneath their fingertips, revealing a vast expanse of darkness. "Though we need something to light the way."

There's silence and then Soul limps forward. "I'm not sure if this will work." He holds his scythe's blade at the edge of the darkness. "But I want to try."

He plays a single note and it rings out, echoing in the empty space. As the sound fades away, a note takes shape, a shape of fuzzy white light hovering uncertainly in the middle of the darkness.

New notes crystallize into being and link together as he sounds out a small melody. His song is largely the same as it was when he played in the museum but now a soft refrain of hope mixes in with the symphony of bitterness and despair, morphing it into a bittersweet harmony.

Soul lowers the scythe and watches the notes hold in place before slowly fading away. "I think I have the song now," he says. "But I don't know the way so it won't stay." He looks at Crona. "It's up to you to start it."

They shuffle nervously. "What if it's wrong?"

"There is no wrong way to play your song," Soul says. When Crona still hesitates, he adds, "It's okay to be afraid. I am too." He pauses. "But it's not living if you let fear control you."

"Do what feels right to you." He offers the scythe to Crona. "I believe in you."

Crona stills. And then, timidly, they reach out and play three notes, simultaneously soft and furious.

From them unfolds a musical staff that winds through the darkness, anchoring Crona's notes in place.

"I did it," they whisper. As their words leave their mouth, the building shakes again and this time, it is not pieces of the ceiling raining down but large chunks of stone and wood.

Soul's hand crashes down on the piano keys, replaying the opening notes of his song. "Time for us to go."

You take his hand and look at Crona expectantly. "Coming?"

They shake their head. "I want to be brave like you," they say. "So that's why I am going to hold this place together so you can get where you need to go."

Their words aren't surprising to you but you still have to fight the stinging in your eyes. You throw your arms around them.

"Thank you for believing in me," they whisper.

You step back and wend your fingers with Soul's, his touch helping you swallow the lump in your throat.

"Don't forget what I told you," you call as you and Soul walk into the darkness.

Crona raises a hand in farewell and you watch until they become a speck in the distance. Then, you tighten your grip on Soul's arm and move forward.

Soul continues his song as you follow the chain of clefs and rests, notes floating up from the piano keys to settle on the staff. When the song winds down, he shifts into a new key and into your song.

Your notes are not as clear-cut as Soul's but they burn bright in the darkness, like a flame. Ringing in your soul, you feel their warmth in your bones and ever so slightly you feel something shift in your being.

When you see a glimpse of impossibly blue sky ahead of you and tug on Soul's arm excitedly. "There it is!"

As you touch down in the room, you get the distinct feeling you are in a place that is neither here nor there, something different in the air that you can't quite explain. By far, it is one of the strangest rooms you've seen here: guillotine-shaped gates stretch into a desert filled with crosses sticking from the ground like cacti as clouds swirl lazily in the blue sky you saw before.

And, perched on a platform in the middle of the room, rests _An Ordered World._

Neither you nor Soul speak as you climb onto the platform. Up close, the painting has a mirror-like quality to it and instead of seeing a grinning sun and the skull lining the castle, you see the inside of Patchwork Museum; you raise your hand, fingertips hovering over where your father contemplates the _Resonance of the Souls_ sculpture.

Soul's voice breaks the silence. "Ready?"

You close your eyes. Soul has stopped playing but the song hasn't ended in you.

Then, you open your eyes and take his hand. "I'm ready."

And holding it tightly, you enter the painting together.

* * *

Continue to Redamancy.


	16. Redamancy

**Redamancy (n: the act of loving the one who loves you, therefore it is a reciprocal affection. It is applicable across all spectrums of love, from friendship, romantic relationships and family bonds.)**

* * *

You blink in confusion, breath catching in your throat as you look around. You're not quite sure why you're standing in front of a blank wall or why it feels there was something hanging there just moments before.

Your mind is sluggish as you think; the last thing you remember is watching the boy leave with his brother but your head is heavy with thoughts that happened between then and now that hover just outside of your memory.

Shaking your head, you close your eyes and open them immediately, surprised to find them wet. As you wipe at them, you're hit by a powerful whiff of coconut.

_("How much hair gel do you use?"_

" _That's not important."_

" _I knew something about your hair wasn't natural.")_

The memory lingers on the edge of your consciousness for another second before falling away and you're left feeling exasperated and shortchanged.

You tug on a pigtail and bite your lip. Where were you when you said it? Who were you with?

An intercom buzzes to life somewhere above you. "Attention, visitors. Our reception will be starting in fifteen minutes in the main exhibit area."

Remembering your promise to yourself from earlier to visit the _Resonance of the Souls_ again, you begin to move. As you pass through the neighboring room and past the statue of Jack the Ripper, a headache presses at your temples, sending chills running down your back and a vision of the Ripper grinning down at you across your mind.

It's connected, all of it, you think as you walk slowly, biting your lip. But even though you feel the answer is right in front of your face, you can't connect the dots.

There's only one person standing at the _Resonance of the Souls_ , white hair and slouched posture recognizable even from afar.

You step beside the boy. "Hello."

He jumps at the sound of your voice and scowls. "Thanks for the heart attack."

A ripple of recognition runs through you at his words and a flurry of images moving too quickly for you to catch flashes through your mind.

"Maka?"

You frown. "How do you know my name?"

"I-" His eyes dart from side to side. "Didn't you introduce yourself to my brother?" He doesn't even sound like he believes himself.

You decide to go with it for the moment. "Maybe. I didn't catch your name though."

He gazes at you like a book he's read before but can't quite recall. "It's Soul."

"Soul." Somehow, the name feels familiar on your lips.

You both turn to look at the sculpture at the same time.

"It's like a song, I think," he says after a minute, sounding like he's choosing his words carefully. "That's what it looks like to me anyways."

A scythe blade of piano keys flickers in your vision and you nod. "I think that's a good way of putting it."

"What do you feel when you look at it?" he asks.

"Harmony." You focus on the link bringing the two souls together, a soft melody echoing in your ears. "It feels powerful."

"And what do you think is power?"

Your reply is automatic. "Courage."

"Courage," he repeats.

"Is that surprising to you?"

He shakes his head. "Not at all."

The sound of the intercom buzzing to life again makes you both start. "Attention visitors. Patchwork Museum's reception will be starting in five minutes."

You fiddle with the hem of your glove. "That's my cue to go."

"Mine too." He falls into step with you like he's done it a thousand times before.

Together, he walks in a comfortable silence with you until the both of you stop at the same time and look at each other. You've looked this way before at the other like sharing the same pulse, _you know it_ , but you can't quite find the right words to say.

You move your gaze to the painting in front of you as you think. The pink-haired child in it peeks shyly at you, wearing a timid but content smile.

"Crona," you whisper, your heart skipping a beat as the memories begin to slide into place faster and faster. "Crona."

You glance over at Soul to find him wearing the same expression as you. He itches underneath his collar, as if feeling his wound anew.

"Do you remember?" You decide to risk it. "Do you remember being in the painting?"

"Some of it, not all of it," he says, tearing his eyes from the painting and passing a hand through his hair. "But I remember you."

You smile. "And I remember you."

* * *

You stow away Soul's number in your pocket as you enter the hall, looking for your father and spotting him sitting alone by one of the tables next to a wall. Your chest doesn't tighten in anger at the sight of him but rather your step as you walk toward him feels light, _free._

"Papa."

His face breaks out in a smile as you take a seat next to him before disappearing abruptly. "I tried to call you before the reception started but Stein somehow roped me into giving the tours he was supposed to give," he says. "Don't worry, we'll go home right after this is over."

"I thought we'd be going out for lunch," you say.

"Well, yes," he says. "But, with school starting tomorrow, I know you have a lot to prepare for."

"I don't mind," you answer. "Really."

"There is a new Italian place that just opened up on Fifth," he says. "Unless you were in the mood for something else."

"That sounds good to me. And-" you pause, "And I thought maybe a walk in the park we used to go to and some ice cream would be nice too."

The smile he was wearing spreads across his face again. "I like that idea."

You return his smile. "I like it too."

* * *

**True End: Moving Forward**


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